Fallout
by Ameraka
Summary: Jason is back in Odyssey, but his adventures are far from over. He wakes up tied to a chair, not knowing how he got there or who kidnapped him. When his captors appear, he learns there are even more consequences to "the labyrinth" than he'd originally thought.
1. Kidnapped

**A/N: Please bear with me with this story. This is the first fanfiction I wrote, and so it may start out a little rough. I was still finding my focus with these first few chapters; I think if you stick with it, it gets better. I am going to revise it when I get the chance; now I am in the process of writing other stories (which I am procrastinating on at the moment).**

**Just a heads-up: this story gets quite violent. Our beloved Jason goes through some horrible things. Just putting that out there; it's rated T for a reason.**

* * *

Jason woke, tied to a chair. Behind his back, prickly ropes dug into his wrists. Sweat trickled down the side of his face, or maybe blood, he couldn't tell. The room he was in looked like some kind of shed—a tool shed, now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Sunlight filtered through the cracks of a window, most of its glass broken, now boarded up.

As he experimented with his bonds, testing their strength, Jason struggled to remember how he'd gotten in this predicament. His mind came up blank. The last thing he knew, he'd been at Whit's End, helping his dad carry in several boxes of cucumbers, which had been leftover from the church food pantry.

Mrs. Lawson, who'd brought them in the first place, had insisted Whit take them home.

"You could use them at your ice cream shop," she'd said.

"Well…" said Whit.

"You could make cucumber ice cream!"

Mrs. Lawson was so enthusiastic Whit just couldn't say no. So Jason had helped his father load three boxes of cucumbers into the car, and take them over to Whit's End.

"You're sure you can find a use for these?" said Jason as he set the last box on the counter.

"We could always make cucumber ice cream."

"Yeah, that'll be a hit. I can just picture the kids lining up for that flavor." And Whit had laughed, Jason joining in.

That was the last thing he remembered.

Jason stopped struggling for a moment to catch his breath. His head pounded, pain throbbing against his right temple. That must've been how he'd been knocked out. And it made sense—short term memory loss was common with head injuries.

Like this has never happened before, thought Jason wryly. The time that came to mind was when he'd been knocked out by Mustafa's goon, and woken up in a room with Tasha. And Blackgaard had been there, masquerading as one of the good guys. Those were the days…

Those days had something in common with recent days, in that events led him back to Odyssey. In other ways, it was different; after chasing Mr. Grote, capturing him, he didn't have the clear purpose of coming to Odyssey to help his father run the shop while he was gone. No, this time, he was older, and the pain ran deeper… a dark thread had taken over his soul, and he didn't know if he could dig it out. Chasing Mr. Grote, he'd gone too far at times, compromised too much, been lost in the labyrinth, as his father had said.

Only God could heal him, but that would take a long time, as far as he could tell. Jason had been volunteering, helping out at the food pantry and other places, and of course Whit's End. But through it all, he still felt….lost. Disconnected. As if he couldn't quite face them with his true self. If they knew what he'd done, what he'd been forced to do (no excuse), they wouldn't want him anywhere near them.

Even Dad—thought Jason. I haven't told him all that happened. If he knew everything, of course he'd still love me, but would he ever see me, his son, in the same way again? In everything he's been involved in, he's never compromised his values like I have…

He shivered, despite the heat. This little shed, wherever it was, was sweltering. It's probably up near Trickle Lake or Forrest Mountain, he thought. Unless I'm completely wrong, and I've been flown to another part of the country for some reason…

He wracked his mind to think of who'd kidnapped him. There were plenty of people who'd want him harm, but most of them were in jail, and few knew he'd returned to Odyssey.

There was that mercenary I ran into in Australia who thought I was invading his turf. Virgil Strom. He was a small-time guy, really, but smart in his own way, and ruthless, so I wouldn't put it past him…and then there are people from the old days, agents who'd want to extract intel from me about the Agency. Though most of what I know is outdated now. Not that they'd know that…people always think that intel stays current, but it changes constantly…life and death hangs on a razor thin edge…

He realized his mind was drifting, and mentally snapped himself back to consciousness. Worst thing I could do is go back to sleep, he thought. Especially if I have a concussion, which seems likely. I have to find a way out of here.

It was silent except for the buzzing of the cicadas. They sounded particularly Odyssey-like; the smell, too, was somehow 'home'. That gave him comfort and renewed hope.

Saying a quick prayer, he clopped his chair past the makeshift wooden shelf of rusty tools to the door. He slammed his shoulder into the door, lifting the chair, and smashing it against the rotting wood. He heard a 'snap!'—part of the door fell apart, breaking clean off the lock.

Jason stepped out into the sunlight, still tied to the chair—and nearly stumbled down a cliff.

He looked down. Pebbles cascaded down a sheer drop onto a pile of rocks at the base of the trees 500 feet below. In the distance, Trickle Lake gleamed in the sun.

This must be Old Man Zebulon's cabin, he thought. He remembered hearing about back when he was a teenager: how a landslide had taken Zebulon's shack and all he had to the bottom of the cliff. Good thing he hadn't been in it at the time, but he'd never been the same again.

This tool shed must be all that's left of his old homestead, he thought. It looks like it's been untouched all that time. Until now.

He turned, looking for a better way down the mountain. It wouldn't be fun walking tied to a chair, but if that was the only way…

Behind the shed, he encountered a large clearing dotted with wildflowers. He stepped into the tall grass. Then, on the other side of the clearing, two figures emerged from the trees, one a man, one a woman. The man had a gun, and aimed it at Jason.

"Get back inside," yelled the man, in a foreign accent. "Or I'll be forced to use this." He brandished the gun, a particularly large one.

Jason hesitated. He could make a run for it, but tied like he was, he wouldn't get far. And he had no defense whatsoever. The chair hadn't been nearly as destructible as the door.

So he hopped back into the shed, and sat back in the place he'd woken up in. And waited to see his who his captors were up close.


	2. Questions

_A/N: Be warned—I am posting this late at night, so there's no guarantee there won't be inconsistencies/errors. _

_Also—there is violence in this chapter. There is also varying amounts of violence in subsequent chapters._

JJJJJ

The man came in first, a huge silhouette. This guy must be pushing seven feet, Jason thought. Biceps bulged beneath his black T-shirt, which showed off his sculpted torso. He wore camouflage pants, and a belt with an arsenal of weapons. In the still-dim light, he looked to have olive skin, with black hair and dark eyes. He could've been of Middle Eastern descent.

The man lumbered forward, and withdrew a knife from his belt.

"You're going to do as I say, right?" said the man.

"Well, you're the one with the knife…" Jason replied.

The man looked out the door. "No one said he'd be a smart aleck. I like those. Makes it more interesting."

A woman stepped inside. She was thin, almost petite, yet athletic, and large, luminous eyes peered out from under a headscarf.

Her eyes turned cold as she looked at him. "I wouldn't be surprised if he was flippant in the face of death. I also wouldn't be surprised if he was a coward when he doesn't have a weapon to hide behind."

"You have to admit," said Jason, "that being tied up does have its disadvantages. And so do you. Have me at a disadvantage I mean. You are-?"

She stepped forward, in front of the man, and reached toward him. One trembling finger touched his face, then she jerked her hand back, as if she'd been shocked. "You don't even know who I am," she said softly.

"You can call me Nadira; I will not tell you my whole name. This is Akim, my bodyguard."

Something clicked in Jason's mind. Akim's accent was very light, but Jason was familiar with it.

"You're Israeli," he said.

Akim's jaw worked. "I was Israeli. Now I have no country. No allegiance but to the one who employs me." He looked at Nadira.

Nadira scowled. "And I would not be called Israeli if you had a gun to my face. But I will leave you guessing as to where I am from."

"You're Egyptian," said Jason. His head was swimming, but not so much that he couldn't read his accents.

"He's good," said Akim.

"Only a trained agent would guess it; both of you speak very good English."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Jason Whittaker!" said the girl. "I know who and what you are. We are here for one thing only. And you will give it to us."

Oh, no, thought Jason. Not this again. They want information, don't they? I wish people would come up with something more original.

"You might as well just skip to the end, because I'm not going to give you anything."

"We'll see about that," said Akim, twirling his knife. Sunlight from the doorway glanced off of it.

I could make a break for it somehow, he thought. But before he could think any further, the knife flickered from Akim's fingers and hurtled toward him.

White-hot pain blasted into his shoulder like a miniature bomb.

He might have cried out, he didn't know. All he knew was that an inferno was burning at his shoulder, as if the blade had slid between shoulder bones.

It's probably just a flesh wound, he thought. But that didn't make him feel any better. He gasped, trying to get the pain under control.

Akim loomed above him in a haze. Then, he grasped the knife, twisting it, then yanking it from his shoulder.

This time, he yelled through his teeth, which helped a little as it happened, then the wave of pain hit him again, and he almost passed out.

The only thing that kept him awake was a hand grabbing his hair, lifting his head. Akim looked down at him, a face dark against the light.

Hate twisted in Jason's gut then, and it took all his strength to wrestle it down.

His shoulder throbbed as if the knife was still embedded there. Akim held the knife in front of him, blood smeared across its edge.

"Where is it?" said Akim.

"Where is…what?"

"You know," said Nadira. "The weapon you took from our people."

Then it clicked in his brain, despite the agony. Of course! She was Egyptian-why hadn't he put two and two together?

He laughed in spite of himself, though it was more of a cough, and it hurt—oh, it hurt to laugh.

"You probably won't believe me—but I don't have it. I never did. In fact, no one ever did."

Nadira's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Things were getting too hot for me in Egypt. That is…" Why not tell them? He'd long abandoned that alias, and it didn't matter now anyway. Maybe, just maybe, they'd believe him, if he stuck to the truth. The truth had a certain ring to it…that is, for people who still had the sensitivity to truth…

"I was undercover in Egypt as Atticus Kohl. A man named Strom was after the same thing I was after…so I created a red herring. It had to be a large one; the only thing that would take him off my tail. Strom was a mercenary, so the biggest payoff possible was the only thing he was after. I created a dummy corporation which would pay him for the recovery of the weapon…and it took him off my trail.

"I must not've been careful enough though, because the weapon took on a life of its own after I created it. Somehow word got out to factions within Egypt, and they searched for it. Its mythology was too strong…I tried to undo the damage, but it was too late. The only thing I could do was let it die of its own accord when people realized there was nothing at the end of the trail."

Nadira stepped toward him. "Is this the truth?" Her eyes were penetrating, yet guarded in a way. "We already knew your name was Kohl; we traced that alias to your real identity."

"I don't know," said Akim. "The best spies mix truth with lies. He-That's what they say."

"But if it is the truth!" Sorrow tore her voice. She turned away, facing the sunlight. A tear sparkled down her cheek.

For the first time, Jason wondered if there hadn't been collateral he hadn't seen…if he had inadvertently harmed someone with the ruse he created. He'd thought it would simmer down of its own accord. But there was something about this girl that didn't seem like a hardened spy or mercenary. There was more to this than the surface suggested…

She turned back to him, no trace of tears. Fury blazed across her face.

"Is this the truth, Jason Whittaker?"

"It's the truth," he said.

"Then what was the thing that you were looking for? The reason you made it up in the first place?"

His heart sunk. "I can't tell you that."

"Is it a weapon?"

"In a way…"

"Would it help my people?"

"I don't know. It has the potential to help…but knowing mankind, it's better kept out of everyone's hands."

"But of course you are pure enough to resist temptation."

"I'm only human. But I have sworn to protect my country, and I'm not going to let such a thing get into the wrong hands."

"There _are_ righteous causes," she said. "But I can't expect someone like you to see that."

"There are good causes. No cause is so righteous it's immune to—"

"Enough! I won't be preached to by a dog like you. Akim, I am going to step outside for some air. See if you can get anything out of him. If you can get that secret from him…maybe our mission will be a success after all."

And she left the shed, leaving him alone with the tender mercies of her bodyguard.


	3. Tools

Akim regarded Jason for a minute. Then he stepped over to the shelf of rusty tools. His fingers played over them, as if fingering a piano.

Jason looked down at his left shoulder. The knife had sliced through his sleeve, and he couldn't tell the extent of the damage beneath. He wished he had something to press against the wound to stop the bleeding; he was beginning to feel sick in addition to the lightheadedness.

"Listen," said Jason, trying to breathe through the pain, "I think we have a mutual interest here. I'm not really looking forward to whatever you're planning…but I don't want to pass out from blood loss either. I'm not going to answer any questions, but if I'm unconscious, it'll be an even less interesting conversation."

Akim turned to look at him, shrugged, and picked up an ancient rag from the table. He shook it out; dust flew through the air, glittering in the sunlight like microscopic fireflies. Then he ripped Jason's sleeve down the middle, and wrapped the rag tightly around his shoulder.

"You're not too worried about infection, are you," said Jason through gritted teeth.

"As long as we find out what you know, it doesn't matter what happens to you afterward."

"Thanks for the concern."

Jason had been tortured before. Several times. Most notably by the Whisperer, back before Jason had put him in jail the first time. He'd used some of his 'electric shock therapy' and almost broken Jason's resolve. Jason barely admitted to himself how far he came to cracking. Torture never got any easier to face, no matter how many times you went through it. It was unreliable—the prisoner might lie to you- but there was always the chance the information might be real.

The stakes are too high, he thought. I'm not going to tell them anything. But it's too bad that a spy, even a retired spy, always seems to have at least one secret that's still viable…

Akim picked up a hammer from the tool shelf. He flipped it over, and then set it gently back in its place. He lifted a saw from the shelf, flexed its blade as if testing it, and set it back, shaking his head. Finally he picked up a pair of pliers.

He snapped the pliers' teeth together and came toward Jason. He walked behind him, and grabbed his wrist. Then, he shoved the pliers beneath one fingernail.

Jason pulled away, though he knew it was probably futile. Isn't there a saying about pulling out fingernails with rusty pliers? he thought. I never thought I'd come close to experiencing it literally.

Akim grabbed his hand in a near-vice grip, crushing his bones together. The pliers were shoved beneath his fingernail once more, digging in. The guard pulled, but the tool slipped. The next time, though, he twisted, and –

Jason screamed.

It was a quick, sharp, white-hot pain. Then it dulled, his finger throbbing as if it had swelled to three times its size. The same thing had happened to him as a kid, only then, he'd been playing football, and his fingernail had bent completely backwards.

Back then, he'd had his father to comfort him and tell him he'd make it through. Now, he'd do anything to have his father there, short of his being a target himself.

Akim grabbed the front of Jason's shirt, and ripped it down the middle, buttons clinking onto the floor.

"Where is the weapon?" the guard asked.

"It's not a weapon per se."

"What is it then?"

"I can't tell you."

Akim withdrew his knife from his belt again. "I thought I'd try something different by using that pliers, but this will always be my favorite tool. And this." He raised his fist, as if it were a trophy. "I don't really like using them on defenseless people though."

"Could've fooled me."

"But I will if I have to. I don't have the option of coming out of this with no information."

"Why do you need information so badly? What does Nadira want with it?"

Akim tapped Jason's chest with the blade. "You aren't supposed to be the one asking questions. It's up to me, and I'm going to do my job right."

"Even if it includes torturing innocent people?"

"From what Nadira tells me, you are far from innocent."

Perhaps I should've rephrased that, thought Jason. I'm not innocent by any means—but I wish I knew what Nadira's specific grudge was.

Akim stepped behind Jason, and the knife crept around in front of his neck. Jason tensed, wondering if he were going to slit his throat after all. Instead, the knife sliced into his skin beneath his collarbone. The bodyguard continued, cutting as if he were a particularly intricate slab of meat.

A tear slipped from his eyes, stinging into a cut like acid.

Please, Lord, help me through this. My father can't be here, but you, my Father, are here, all the time. I have forgotten that too often in the past several years. I've tried to do things on my own…but my own strength is an illusion. Case in point.

"Where is the weapon?" said Akim.

"I'll never tell you. You might as well give up."

Akim sheathed his knife. "You will tell me. I have license to do this job till it's done, and I'm not going anywhere until it's accomplished."

"Then we're at an impasse. My job is to keep secrets, and I'm good at it. Shall we see who's better at their job?"

Akim raised his eyebrow. "You want me to hurt you?"

"At some point, you'll go too far and kill me before I give you anything. Besides, if you were really so good at your job, you'd bring more sophisticated equipment than a knife."

"It's what I like to use. Besides, I think _this _may be my best instrument after all."

And he flung his fist toward Jason's face.

It felt like his face had broken open. Blood gushed over his mouth and chin; he realized his nose had broken. Before he could brace himself, another blow slammed into his cheek. That, too, split open. This man has iron fists if anyone ever did, he thought vaguely.

Then, his eye.

His jaw.

His cheek.

Again. And again.

Finally, mercifully, he blacked out.

When he came to, the woman, Nadira, was standing in front of him. There were two of her—three—no, she merged back into two, then one. Akim was holding his head back by his hair.

Nadira held up a metallic-blue phone. "The reception isn't very good up here," she said.

"Just take a picture, and if it doesn't send, we can always go down the mountain a ways."

"As long as no one finds us." She held up the phone, but her hand trembled. "Did you have to hurt him so badly, Akim?"

"The worse he looks for the picture the better. Besides, I thought you wanted him hurt, after what he did to you."

"I know… but…I can't help it. I know what he is, but I don't like to see anyone hurt. Especially after what I saw during the revolution."

She lifted her other hand to hold the phone, reducing its trembling. Then there was a snapping sound as the picture took.

"How'd it turn out?" asked Akim.

"It's a little dark—but I think it'll work." She pressed some buttons, but then said, "It won't send. We'll have to go further down."

"I'll do it," said Akim. "I have less to lose if I get caught." And he snatched the phone and stepped out into the light.

The last thing Jason saw before he lapsed back into unconsciousness was Nadira looking down at him, concern and pity, yet revulsion, on her face.


	4. Blood

Whit walked over to the table carrying two dishes of ice cream. It had been a busy morning, but finally it was slowing down a bit.

"Here you go- one Raspberry Ripple and one Rocky Road," he said, setting the dishes down in front of Matthew and Emily.

"Nice alliteration, Mr. Whittaker," said Emily, not looking up from furiously jotting in her notebook.

"What?"

"Alliteration. You know, when the first letters of a word…well, match." She gave a flourish of her pencil.

"It sounds like you've been talking to Eugene."

"No, just something I learned in school yesterday."

"And she's been obsessed with it ever since," said Matthew. "She's been saying things like, lima beans and licorice look like llamas."

"No, silly, the things I've been saying make a lot more sense. Like this: When we waved at the window-washer, he whistled wildly."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "That makes a lot more sense."

"Well, they're hard to come up with on the spot. You try it."

"Maybe later. Right now, I want to eat some ice cream. Thanks, by the way, Mr. Whittaker."

"Yeah, thanks," said Emily. She set down her pencil and dug into the ice cream. "Wait, I ordered the Rocky Road."

"Oh, sorry!" said Whit.

"No problem." She switched dishes with Matthew. "I can tell it's been busy today."

Whit laughed. "I've been swamped. In the old days, kids used to sleep in on Saturday."

"Dunno about everyone else, but we have more important things to do, don't we, Matthew?"

"We're on a case."

"Really? What's it about?"

"It's—"

"Shh!" said Emily. "It's a secret."

"We can tell Mr. Whittaker, can't we?"

"Of course, but not so loud."

"Oh, sorry." Matthew lowered his voice to a whisper. "Um, yesterday when Emily and I rode our bikes back to her house, we were going past the house across the street, and we heard a grinding sound."

"Like really creepy. It was in the basement."

"That's odd," said Whit.

"Yeah. So we got to thinking, and we figured they might be criminals, like counterfeiters, like we had here last summer."

"You never know," said Whit. "But more than likely, it has a perfectly normal explanation. Try not to leap to too many conclusions."

"We're not. That's why we're gathering evidence. We don't want to do something before we know what's going on."

"I hope you aren't being too conspicuous. Your neighbors might not like that you're spying on them."

"Spying? We're not…Well, I guess we are. But we've got some good notes. Want to take a look at them? We're trying to find a pattern in their behavior. So far, we've found out that…they don't do too much. But last night, I saw their light on in the basement again and—"

"Hey," said the guy at the next table. "Can I get my root beer float?"

"Oh, yes, of course," said Whit. "Sorry about that. Coming right up." And Whit went back into the kitchen, thinking he wasn't surprised he'd forgotten someone in all the commotion.

Just then, the bell above the door rang. Whit turned to greet them—and saw that it was Connie.

"Hi, Whit," she said. "Ready for me to take over?"

"Take over?"

"Yeah, it's my shift."

"I haven't had time to check what time it was."

"That busy, huh?"

"It's settling down some. Just one more root beer float." He scooped some vanilla ice cream into a glass of root beer, and Connie took it out to the rather disgruntled customer.

Whit looked at his watch. It was already 12:45; it was time to meet Jason at Hal's Diner for lunch. He said a quick goodbye to Connie, Matthew and Emily, and walked out to his car.

At the diner, he waited for about fifteen minutes, then asked if someone matching Jason's description had come in. He didn't see him at any of the tables.

He got a table anyway and sat down. Looked at the menu, which all blurred together. Something nagged in his mind. What if something happened? he thought.

No, just because he's late doesn't mean anything. Maybe he forgot, or got caught up in something…

Whit took out his cell phone to see if there were any messages. There was one from Connie saying she was going to be a little late, but none from his son.

His call redirected to voicemail. Maybe Jason's phone isn't charged, thought Whit. That isn't like him though….

There's no reason to believe anything's wrong. Worrying won't help. But I can't shake this feeling…He is my son, and I've felt things before, when my kids were in trouble. Like Jerry…

He got up, left a tip for his waiter, and headed over to Jason's apartment.

He knocked, and waited in the hall for about ten minutes. Then he dug in his pocket for his keys, and opened the door with the key to Jason's apartment.

The door creaked open.

Inside, a bookshelf lay on its face, books scattered across the floor. The dining room chairs had tipped over, one of the chairs' legs broken. Whit stepped inside, and walked through a labyrinth of broken vases, torn books, crushed plants. It was like someone had gone through and ripped the place apart without rhyme or reason. Like during the outbursts of anger back during Novacom's tests.

In Jason's bed room, it was the same. The lamp beside the bed was smashed. And on the floor, there were several spots of dark red.

Blood.

He knelt beside the blood, as if he could determine whose it was by looking closer. It was most likely his son's, though Whit couldn't help wishing it was the blood of whoever had attacked him…

Please let Jason be all right, he prayed, as he walked into the office. It was the same there; the only difference was, the laptop computer on the desk was in its normal place, as if a tornado had whipped around it, but left it untouched.

Whit pulled the desk chair upright, and sat down in it. He pulled out the middle left drawer, and felt for the secret compartment. That, too, was untouched, but the only things inside were some of Jason's old agency documents. No clue as to what the intruders had been looking for.

I learned to live with the risks of Jason being an agent, he thought. It wasn't easy, but I was familiar with that life—I practically introduced him to it—and he knew the risks. I had to let go. But after he quit this time, I …let my guard down. He was here, safe; I didn't think anything could happen. He wasn't himself, but I didn't think he'd be in physical danger again.

Now—

Now, he thought, I need to figure out what happened here. If it was a normal robbery, why didn't they take the computer? But if they wanted his secrets, it also doesn't make sense they had left the computer. Most likely, they either kidnapped him, or killed him and took him somewhere else…

No, not killed. I can't consider that possibility.

His phone buzzed into the deathly silence. He jumped. Across the screen, there was a text.

**You will give me Zephyr, it said. The longer you wait, the more your son will suffer. **

A photo accompanied the text. A man, half in shadow, sitting in a chair.

At first, Whit couldn't tell who he was. Then, he saw the clean lines of his face, the stubborn Whittaker chin.

Jason. His eye swollen, his face and chest covered in blood and numerous cuts. Someone held up his head by his hair; he looked barely conscious.

Whit's heart ached. He could barely stand to look at the picture, but couldn't look away, knowing this was the most recent image of his son that he had.

Who has done this? he wondered, anger taking hold of him. Who could possibly know about Zephyr, a computer program I've never told anyone about, outside of my DoD colleagues?

There is one possibility, he told himself. If so, I need to call someone in the Agency-

As if on cue, his phone buzzed again.

The text:

**Oh, and if you tell anyone about this, I will kill your son. **

**In the meantime, Jason will be enjoying the hospitality of someone who wants nothing better than to hurt him in every way possible. **

**Have a nice day. **


	5. Truth

He stirred. Everything hurt. The light that poured sideways through the doorway, and through the boarded up window, was shaded subtly golden, the color of afternoon.

The dream still clung to his mind. He'd been fishing, his father beside him, the only sounds the boat as it sloshed against the water, the drip, drip, drip of water off of the edge of the boat, then the rapid click of the reel, bringing in a fish.

The fish flashed bright in the sun-small, flat, silver, with iridescent scales. Jason and his father looked at it for a few moments, and then tossed it back into the lake. It swam away into the dark depths beneath the powder-blue reflection of sky.

The dream had changed, and Jerry and Jana had been in it, and it had gotten more hectic, but Jason held onto that image of peace as his eyes opened and he found himself immersed back in pain. At the moment, he was alone. His thirst was vying with his injuries for supremacy. He could barely feel his hands now; the ropes felt as if they were made of fire.

A shadow fell across the doorway, and the girl stepped in. She wasn't really a girl; she must've been at least 20 years old. And she had come halfway across the world to capture him—a formidable accomplishment. But she was small and delicate, so he automatically thought of her as younger perhaps than she was. He wondered again what interest she had in all of this. It seemed more than just business, as it did with Akim; to her, it seemed personal.

Nadira looked at him for a moment, then, from beneath her green shirt, she unslung a gun from her belt, a small black pistol. With her other hand, she took a water bottle from the pack on her shoulder. Then, she leaned against the edge of the tool shelf and took a long drink.

"Would you like some?" she said.

"What's the catch?"

"If you answer some of my questions."

"Will you answer some of mine?"

She stepped toward him, boots thudding on the packed earth floor. "You can ask. But you're not in a position to demand _anything_. You have had people under your manipulation; now it's your turn to be under another's control. How does it feel?" She lifted the gun, swiped it under his chin to press against his pulse.

In ordinary times, he'd think of a bit of sarcasm to fire back with, but now, it was all he could do just to speak. He knew the thing he needed most was what Nadira taunted him with—the promise of water, if he'd answer a question.

"To tell you the truth," he said, "I'd rather be somewhere else."

"The truth. Interesting words to come from a man who lives his life through lies. How many aliases have you had?"

"I've lost count."

"It doesn't matter. Kohl is the one I'm concerned with. And the man you're masquerading as now."

"Jason Whittaker is no alias."

"It may not be an alias, but you are pretending to be someone you are not. A respectable citizen. Do the people you live among know what you have done?"

He shook his head. Even if it were not a breach of security, he could never bear to tell them what he had done as an agent. Pursuit of Grote had become an obsession, his job had become his passion, and everything else had fallen by the wayside. Even truth. Even others' lives had not meant as much as the mission.

"Nadira," he said, "I will do anything to make up for any harm I may have caused you."

She shoved the gun deeper under his chin. "You could pay with your blood. Except that your blood would be have to be spilled a hundred times over to be worth…to be worth the precious blood that you took from me." She turned away, the gun clutched by her side.

What have I done? he thought. I have had to use deadly force in self-defense, but what if an innocent got caught in the crossfire somehow?

"Nadira, I'm sorry." What else could he say? But the words sounded hollow, indefensibly so.

She whirled back, the gun aimed at his head. "I should kill you right now and give the world some semblance of justice." Her voice was torn with grief. She pressed the gun to his forehead, and he closed his eyes, heart thumping in his ears, like the foreshadowing of the gunshot that would pierce his skull any second.

But then, the cold mouth of the pistol withdrew. He breathed again.

"Except I am not a killer. If Allah wills it, you will die a just death. But if you give me information, that will provide more justice than simply killing you.

"What is this weapon that was worth my sister's life?"

It was as if a knife had stabbed his heart. "Your sister….?"

"You probably didn't even know her name. To you, she was just a thing that got in the way of your plans."

"What was her name?"

She hesitated. "Noor. Her name was Noor."

"I caused her death somehow?"

"You were the one who ordered it. But I suppose you don't even remember what happened that day in the Lawaah Building."

"I would like to know your side of what happened."

She leaned back against the tool shelf again. "I wasn't there that day. I was participating in protests against the government. My sister supported our movement, but she was only twelve, and I wanted her off the streets, so I sent her to my father's office. I thought she would be safe there." Her voice faded to a whisper.

"Then—this I found out later. Factions from the military government and our democratic movement sent teams into the building to capture a weapon there. They tried to break down the door of the office, but two workers escaped and shot their way down the hallway into my father's office. They took hostages—including my father and my sister.

"And then to show they were serious, they took my father at gunpoint and—were going to execute him. But Noor—she—she stepped in front of the gun—just as it went off. She saved his life, but—" She shook her head. Tears slipped from her eyes.

"Then the teams stormed the office, and shot the one who killed Noor. The other they took prisoner.

"My father had been wounded by the gunshot. He was taken to the hospital….I only learned of what happened later that night. I went to the hospital…then went to see Noor.

"She…half her face was blown away…I…couldn't believe it was her at first but when they told me that it was, I held her, praying for a miracle. I was told that I didn't want to let her go in order to be buried. I still couldn't—in some ways I still can't—believe she is gone. She lived up to her name—she brought light into every corner of our lives.

"When my father was able, he launched an investigation into what happened. He wanted to find the truth as much as I did. He found out that the corporation sold weapons to the highest bidder, and they had offered a superweapon to both the government and our movement. Instead of paying for the weapon, both decided to attack the corporation.

"My father had government connections. He was able to see the transcripts of the interrogation of the man who was captured, named Ali. He said that he was only doing what he was told—by a man called Atticus Kohl, the one in charge of the whole operation. This man had ordered him to take the hostages in order to cover his own escape. Kohl had stayed in contact with them, and told them to kill one of the hostages, the one with the most value. My father.

"What I want from you is to admit what you have done. You targeted my father, who would have died instead of Noor. No matter what, I'd be missing one from my family if not for your orders."

"Nadira…I didn't order his death. I wasn't in contact with them, Ali lied—"

"You're the one who is lying! Tell me the truth!"

"That is the truth. But it doesn't absolve me from responsibility. I created that weapon, and the corporation to back it up. I didn't know they'd say they had already obtained the weapon—but it makes sense after how much I paid them. It wasn't real money, though they must not've found out; I didn't have that much in my budget, so I …made more. I thought that I could get away with it; leave them to pay Strom with the counterfeit bills and let them deal with the fallout. They weren't good guys in the first place, so my conscience was clear if they were arrested. Meanwhile, I was free and clear to bury the old alias, start anew. No consequences. I'd foiled Grote once; I'd foil him again, using all of my clever resources.

"I should've figured that my employees would give into greed. Rather than pay Strom to find the fake weapon, they said they had the weapon, and wanted others to pay for it. It was a win-win—they'd have my money, and the money of the highest bidder. It was a dangerous game, though. And they were unscrupulous men. But I was in Singapore and with a new alias, my fake corporation wasn't my problem anymore. It was so far out of my mind I didn't even bother to check on what had happened to them for a long time. As long as I'd lost Strom, and Grote had lost the real weapon, it didn't matter.

"Even then, I didn't look hard enough to see the details. I didn't hear about what happened to your sister. All the same, I'm responsible—_because_ I didn't know. Because I left behind a mess I should've cleaned up—or not created in the first place. But I was so…absorbed in my role, I began to enjoy it, enjoy creating things that weren't real in order to fool the bad guys. I did the very things I was trying to stop others from doing, but it was okay, it was all for 'a good cause'. Until…well, until recently, I thought I came through it unsinged. But I began to realize that the darkness had taken a toll on me spiritually. And until now, I thought that I was the one who had been hurt the most. But now, I see that my web of deception, my recklessness, cost your sister's life. No cause is worth that. If there was a way…Nadira, somehow, if I could spill my own blood in order to bring back your sister, I would."

Nadira tipped her head, large brown eyes focused on him. "And if I could exchange my life for hers, I would in a heartbeat. Perhaps…we have more in common than I thought…

"Still, I can't be sure if you're telling the truth. Either way, by your own admission, you are responsible. And what matters now is that you know about the weapon that can help our people. Noor would have wanted us to have it."

"It isn't a weapon."

"All the better. She hated violence, and so do I. But if there is a way, through violence, to achieve freedom, perhaps….perhaps it is worth it. It is better in our hands than in another's."

"You can't be sure of that—"

"My sister believed in our cause—if anyone's right about it, she would be."

"Would she want you to go this far?"

She slapped his face with surprising force for someone so delicate. The cut that was just starting to close broke open again. Blood trickled down his cheek.

"Don't presume to know what she would want. From now on, I don't want you to speak, unless you are telling me what I want to know."

"Just one more thing I'm not clear on."

"What's that?" she snapped.

"How did you find me? You must have great resources if you uncovered my identity. If I'm good at anything, it's at covering my tracks. And neither you nor Akim are trained agents."

"There is no reason for me to answer that. But if you don't answer my question, you'll find out that I don't need Akim to do my work for me."

She took something from the belt on her left side. A small black device that fit into her palm.

Jason knew all too well what it was.

Just before she pressed it to his chest, he thought, I'm not going to see a drop of water for a while.

The next second, thousands of volts blazed into his body, purging all semblance of thought from his mind.


	6. Might

Connie swept the counter with the dishrag for the millionth time that day, using the swift rhythm of years of practice. If anyone's a professional at working here, it's me, she thought. After she'd come from California, it was the first place she felt like she belonged, and whenever things went wrong somewhere else, this place was like a second home. Right now, there was nowhere else she'd rather be than here in Odyssey, at Whit's End, wiping crumbs off of the counter after a long day.

Things were settling down. Most of the kids had gone home for supper; right now, there was only Emily and Matthew upstairs in the Imagination Station, and…there was someone else, wasn't there? Oh, that man in the corner booth, sitting as still as a shadow.

Strange. She had never seen him in here before. She wondered if he was new in town. It had been so busy most of the afternoon, she hadn't even thought to ask his name or where he was from. Come to think of it, she hadn't seen him come in….Had he been here all afternoon? Wasn't he the guy who she'd given the root beer float to when she'd first come in at 1:00?

That was odd. And kind of creepy.

Great. I'm just jumping to conclusions. He probably just likes the place and wants to hang out for a while, that's all.

Well, if he's up to no good, I'll chase him out of here. And if he's a secret agent or something…we've had so many of those around here I've lost count.

Well, not that many. None in the past…year. Except for one. The only one that really matters. Because he's Whit's son of course, not for any other reason. Not that there'd be any other reason…

Oh, cut it out, she told herself. It's been a long day. Time to go home and relax. I'll wait a little while until Emily and Matthew get done with their adventure.

She strode over to the man. "Do you need anything?"

He looked up from beneath his hat. He squinted up at her, gray eyes glinting. He had smile lines around his tanned face, but he wasn't smiling.

"No, I'm fine. I suppose you're closing soon?" His voice was low yet pleasant, but something about it was…fake. As if he was trying too hard to be polite, and would rather not be if he didn't have to.

"We will be in a few minutes. You don't have to hurry, though. Take your time."

"That's fine. I need to get going anyway."

"Can…I ask where you're headed?"

He smiled. "You can ask."

"Just curious, that's all."

"I'll just be going for a walk, then to a hotel."

"Oh? Do you have business in Odyssey?" She noted his pristine gray suit.

"Something like that. Thanks for your excellent service." And he rose, showing he was much taller than he looked when he was sitting down. He tipped his hat, and strode out the door.

Connie grabbed her purse and went upstairs to get Emily and Matthew. It was strange, now that the man had gone, the place made her feel jumpy, its silent, unused rooms shrouded in shadow.

In the Bible Room sat the imagination Station. Emily and Matthew were just stumbling out of it, reeling as if dazed.

"What an adventure!" said Emily. "Let's do it again!"

Matthew clutched his stomach. "I don't know if I could handle another one. I don't think I'll eat for a week."

"It's time to be done anyway," said Connie. "I have to close up shop."

"Oh, okay," said Emily. "I didn't know it was that late."

"You two go downstairs. I'll look around and make sure everything's shut down."

She set down her purse and went across the room to shut down the Noah's Ark display, which was stuck in a sound loop, "And it rained for forty days—" over and over. She made a mental note to tell Whit about it.

She hurried downstairs. Whit was by the doorway, talking to Matthew and Emily, something about Emily's neighbor. Right before Connie got there, the two kids dashed out the door into the waning sunlight.

"Hi, Whit," said Connie. "Here to catch up on a project?"

"Something like that." He smiled, but his eyes were sad. Come to think of it, he was pale, his face drawn, as if he were ten years older.

"Whit—is there something wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing you need to worry about. I'm just not feeling myself, that's all."

"Are you sure you should be working late? I mean, if you're not feeling well—"

"I'll be fine. There's nothing wrong with me…physically."

"Spiritually?"

He gave a sad smile. "Maybe."

"But it's not something you can tell me."

"If I could, I would."

"There isn't anything I can do?"

He shook his head. "Not at the moment, no. Except—pray, Connie."

"I will, Whit." She walked out the door, wishing she knew what was going on so she could help.

It's none of my business, she thought, as she walked out to her car. If he wanted me to know, he'd tell me.

She stopped by her car, reached for her keys in her purse—and realized her purse wasn't there.

Great. Where did I leave it last? It was in the kitchen—and then I took it up the Bible Room...

Back inside, all the lights on the main floor were off. Whit was nowhere to be seen.

As she reached the Bible Room, she saw the door to Whit's office was open. He wasn't at his desk though. He was in secret computer room, and had left the bookcase open.

I should really let him know that I'm here, she thought. But what if he doesn't want me to know? Maybe I should just leave my purse and come back tomorrow.

She was about to announce her presence, when she saw what was on the computer screen.

It was a man, horribly beaten—but there was something about his face that was familiar—and the blue of his eyes, so like his father's—

Jason! Her hear tore to see him like that. Why would anyone want to hurt him? she wondered. Could it be some of his old enemies? That's probably why Whit doesn't want me to know. But there has to be something I can do!

Just then, Whit got up from his chair—and froze. "Connie? Is that you?"

"What's going on, Whit?"

"You'd better get inside. If any place is secure, it's this room."

She came in, and he shut the bookshelf behind her. Then she pulled up a second chair and sat down beside him.

On the large screen, everything was magnified. Every bruise, every cut, every drop of blood. She had to turn away after a moment and look at Whit to avoid seeing Jason's terribly injured face.

"Who did this?"

"I have my suspicions, but no proof. All I have is this picture, and the texts I've been getting all day, threatening to do more harm to my son if I don't hand over…a certain computer program."

"Applesauce?"

"No, Zephyr."

"Zephyr?"

"No reason we called it that, except that it was the last letter of the alphabet, and Applesauce was the first."

"You've worked on that many programs?"

"Well, some I've had more of a hand in than others. This one, like Applesauce, was developed with the Department of Defense. If possible, it's even more secret, but it never got out of the development stage. It's been in 'cold storage', partly because of a security breach. The person in question never got it, but the government feared his access, and so they locked it up, believing that the risks of using it outweighed its benefits."

"Who was the person who tried to get it?" Memories of Blackgaard flitted across her mind, but she knew it couldn't possibly be him.

"We never found out who he was—just an exceptionally brilliant hacker who called himself Might. We never knew anything beyond the communications he sent us."

"Do you think it's the same guy?"

"I'm not ruling out any possibilities, but if it's someone else—our security breach was bigger than we thought. It makes sense why he'd want it, and he knew of my involvement. What I don't know is why he waited to try to get it after all these years."

"But do you even have the program? I mean, they had it in storage."

"That's the strange part. There was only one other person beside me that knew I had a copy of the program, and the other person died several years ago."

"What if he's been spying on you? Saw you had the program somehow….Whit—I saw someone in here tonight. He was here since before you left. Do you think he could have something to do with this?"

Whit hesitated. "Was it the same man that was here earlier today?"

"Well, he had a hat and a gray business suit."

"Sounds like him. Did you talk to him?"

"He just said he was going to a hotel. He didn't say which one."

"Hm. There's no way to find out anything without more information, unless he comes in here again. Right now, I'm studying this picture to see if it'll give me a clue about where Jason is. I've got some software that'll help me analyze the picture. It's the best lead we've got right now."

"If there's any way I can help, Whit…"

"You're helping already." He smiled at her; the first genuine smile she'd seen from him since he'd come back to the shop.

She sat with him the next few hours. It was true, there wasn't much she could do; computer programming was all Greek to her. But she could talk with him and, most importantly, pray with him.

It was about 10:00. Connie was getting tired; she was long overdue back at her apartment, and Penny was probably wondering where she was. She didn't even have her cell phone; it was still in her purse.

"Whit, I think I'd better—"

"Go ahead, Connie. I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"I'll just stay a little longer myself."

"Make sure to get some rest. You can't help Jason if you're all worn out."

"That's true. Thank you, Connie, for everything."

"I'll keep praying."

"And make sure you don't tell anyone about this. Jason's life may depend on it."

She gave Whit a hug, looking at Jason's picture and wishing she could hug him too—though it'd probably hurt him too much if she did.

Walking down the dark hallway, she wondered whether it would do any good to go home; she probably wouldn't get any sleep tonight anyway. She'd be up all night, worried about Jason.

-  
Whit sat back at the computer. It had been good to have someone to talk to, to not be alone in dealing with this. He just hoped that Jason's kidnapper hadn't found out Connie knew; no one could be that omniscient. Unless the security breach went further than anyone had suspected…

He leaned his head in his hands, suddenly feeling exhausted. Ever since he'd found out what had happened, he'd been in a state of heightened tension. Now, it was all catching up with him. He didn't want to stop looking for a lead…but maybe Connie was right. Maybe he'd have to get some rest in order to be fresh enough to start again.

He was just about to get up, head home, when his cell phone vibrated.

It wasn't a text this time. It was an unknown number. He picked it up.

"You did something bad, didn't you?" said a gravelly voice. Something about it sounded automated, as if it were a computer-fabricated voice.

"Who is this?"

"You know perfectly well who I am."

"Is it Might?"

"Might? I haven't gone by that name in years. But yes, if you must know, I'm the man behind the might. Or I could be a woman as far as you know." He laughed. "But we're not here to talk about me. You told someone else, didn't you?"

"I didn't—she found out on her own."

"Did she now?" the voice sneered.

"Don't hurt my son!"

"I'm not the one hurting him. But don't worry, I won't kill him. Yet. I can allow it was a mistake—this time. The girl is harmless. But in the future, if either of you so much as slip one word of this to anyone—he dies."

"What leverage will you have then?" he asked, though he knew the answer before he said it.

"I'm sure I can think of someone you care about to choose from."

"I'm not about to tell anyone."

"Good. But you're not going to be let off scot-free. No, I'm going to have to punish you, and according to my rules, that means punishing Jason.

"Stick by Jason's computer; the next file I send will be to his address. Oh, and even if he lives, there's no guarantee that your precious son will come out of this without permanent damage."

The man hung up. Silence fell.

Time is running out, thought Whit. I'm no closer to a solution—if there is one. The only way may be to somehow convince him to exchange myself for my son.


	7. Guilt

As his mind emerged from a purgatory of delirious dreams, his body cried out for water. Burns crisscrossed his chest, where the stun gun had pressed against his skin, shocks still echoing across it. But even the pain paled in comparison with his thirst. As far as he knew, he hadn't had anything to drink since yesterday, and now it was evening, the cabin completely in shadow, just a few faint glimpses of orange light spilled across the floor; outside, the crickets chirped a mad melody.

Nadira had disappeared somewhere, where he didn't know. He didn't have a particular desire to see her again. But after what she'd told him, he could hardly blame her for her anger. She wanted the weapon, but there was more to it—she blamed him for the death of her sister. Even if she believed him when he'd said that he hadn't known what his employees had done, there was no way that he could repay her for the one she had lost. He saw now there were so many other ways he could have accomplished the same thing, but he'd become intoxicated by his ability to manipulate situations to his advantage, his expertise as an agent, and the exhilaration that came along with it. He'd taken shortcuts, such as hiring men he knew were shady characters, paying them in counterfeit money-and manufacturing the false weapon in the first place. A labyrinth of lies, culminating in the death of a twelve year old girl.

How can I ever forgive myself for what I have done? he thought. All I have gone through so far today is nothing compared to what I deserve.

His shoulder twisted with pain where the knife had been embedded. He tried to maneuver into a better position, but the ropes were too tight. He hoped infection hadn't set in. He was feeling strange, dreamy; shapes moved in the shadows, which he knew to be a product of his mind, taxed by pain and dehydration. But it wouldn't be long until he wouldn't be able to tell the difference between dreams and reality—by that time, it might be too late.

If they want to kill me, he thought, they're doing a good job of it. A slow job, though.

Voices drew nearer, and footsteps rustled through grass, then clicked across the rocks. Nadira and Akim entered the shed.

Akim withdrew his knife. Jason tensed, steeling himself for another round of torture. Akim stepped behind him, grabbed his arm—then there was a rasping sound. Suddenly, there was release as the rope was cut. A whole new world of pain opened up; his shoulders screamed as he tried to bring his arms forward, his shoulder wound stabbing him as if the knife had twisted inside it again.

Rope unwound from his wrists, coiling off onto the floor. It felt like his hands had been severed; he tried to move them, but couldn't.

Then, feeling began to tingle back into them. Nothing more than a few pinpricks at first, it burst into a constellation of fiery needles. He moved his hands, working through the pain, knowing it was best to get the feeling back into them.

Nadira stepped toward him, handed him something, then darted back beside Akim. A water bottle. His fingers still sore and slow, it was all he could do just to keep it from toppling to the floor.

He tried to lift the bottle to his lips. Several times. But his shoulders had been in one position too long, and he just couldn't lift his arms that high. The bottle fell from his half-numb fingers.

Nadira grabbed the bottle, and neared him, gun in one hand. Akim gripped his knife, as if prepared to move in a flash if he tried anything.

She held the bottle near his mouth. "Drink," she ordered, her eyes averted.

She tipped the bottle up and cold water—sweet as if it had just come from a mountain stream—flooded across his tongue, down his throat.

Then, she snatched it away. He glared up at her.

"You don't want to get sick, do you? You will if you drink too much at once."

Of course, he thought, though his craving for water was nearly unbearable, even more so now that he'd had some.

"Why-?" he said.

"We don't want to kill you; we haven't learned what you know yet."

"There is that…"

She looked at her bodyguard. "Akim-?"

Before Jason knew what was happening, Akim stepped forward, and jabbed his right arm with a syringe full of yellowish liquid.

"What…is this?"

"It will restore your strength, and help you sleep," said Nadira.

This time, as he faded from consciousness, all malevolence had disappeared from her gaze; instead, there was sadness, even sympathy. But perhaps it was no more than his mind playing tricks on him….

It only took a few moments for darkness to swallow him whole.

JJJJJ

Outside, in the cool darkness of late evening, Nadira sat against the wall of the shed, her fingers laced over her knees. Akim, eclipsed by the trees, patrolled the woods, making sure no one got the chance to get near this remote hideout, this makeshift jail their benefactor had handpicked for them.

Nadira knew she should get some sleep, as Akim had advised her. But she also knew that if she tried, she wouldn't be able to. Thoughts were churning through her mind at a breakneck pace. She needed rest from them; they were like demons, constantly attacking her defenses. But they wouldn't stop.

She looked up at the moon, desperate for distraction. At first glance, it could be mistaken for full, except for the tiny sliver sliced off the edge of it.

Strange, she thought. The moon looks the same here as it does back in Egypt. But it is still the same moon, even in this alien place.

A wave of homesickness washed over her. Her mission for her homeland had taken her far away from it. She was beginning to forget details—what her apartment looked like, her sister's grave. She hoped her father was doing well, despite the fact that his injury left him wheelchair-bound. He hadn't sanctioned her trip; she had a feeling he wouldn't have approved. She was paying for the trip and Akim's wages with her monthly allowance, which she'd get till she was 21; as a lawyer for a multinational corporation, her father denied her almost nothing. Her identification with the masses was a way of making up for her privileged, sequestered life, partly due to Noor's influence.

Noor. Her heart still ached whenever she thought of her, even though it had been a year since her death. Beautiful Noor, my little light…

She took out her phone and looked at the picture on its background, glowing against the dark. Dark brown eyes, so like Mother's…. In the picture, she'd been celebrating the downfall of Mubarak in Tahrir Square, the black, white and red of Egypt's flag painted on her face, so happy she'd been…

Nadira flipped through some more pictures of Noor. An old one, from when she was a curly-headed two-year-old, stopped her short. Her breath caught in her throat.

Back then, she thought, I still resented her for being the 'cause' of Mother's death…though she was starting to win me over. How could you not be won over by that smile.

I'm so sorry, my little light. I'm sorry for how I treated you at first. I'm sorry for sending you to Father's office that day—I can hardly say I'd rather have Father dead instead of you, but why did you have to do it? Why did you have to step in front of that man, sacrifice yourself…your brave, beautiful little soul…

She leaned her head into her hands, rocking back and forth, fighting the tears. But they came anyway, and spilled between her fingers as she sobbed in the dark, aching for the presence of her sister, hoping against hope she would see her again someday.

At last, she curled up against the wall, huddled beneath a thorny bush, not caring that she would get dirty. She didn't feel like walking over to the one-person tent that was set up in the woods, and she certainly didn't want to go inside the shed, where the prisoner was bound, sleeping deeply from the concoction Akim had given him.

Guilt gripped her when she thought of what she'd done, using the stun gun on Jason. It was different when Akim had hurt him; she'd been able to go outside, block her ears from the screams. But after the first surge of anger had burned away, it had become harder to press forward with her resolve to get the truth by any means necessary. She had felt…dirty. Akin to the thugs who had used Tasers to subdue the crowd during the revolution. Many of them had thought they were acting for a righteous cause. If she did the same things they did, how was she any different than they were?

Should a righteous cause use the same means at its disposal as an evil one? How far could you go until you had betrayed your ideals, and become the thing you hated?

To the terrorists, any end justifies the means, she thought. I am not a terrorist. I would never target innocents. I am not like _him._

But then, he is not like I thought he would be. Face to face, he is different than how I imagined him. Despite the fact that he's a spy, there's a certain honesty about him. He seemed genuinely sorry that he caused my sister's death. I had to keep thinking of the cause, the greater good, in order to keep….hurting him.

An image flashed across her mind of herself using a stun gun to torture the prisoner, and it startled her. I am not that person, am I? Me, Nadira, who detests every form of violence, actually torturing a man—no matter how guilty- with my own hands. Have I changed that much?

What would Noor think of me?

I hated it when_ he_ asked that—what right had he to mention her? But now that I've reached the end of the road, I've found that the original weapon was never real, and the architect of the crime was in ignorance of it. Would Noor really want me to continue this…crusade?

She would want me to fight for what was right. But she would not want me to become like the oppressors we both hated.

That's what I've become, haven't I?

She turned to face the wall, away from the phantom image of her sister outlined against the backdrop of her mind, her sister's eyes, normally gentle, blazing with accusation.


	8. Hope

Voices snapped him awake, coming from somewhere outside the shed. The bluish light of early morning was seeping through the door; cold mist clung to his skin.

His throat was still dry, but he felt much better, despite the nightmares he'd been immersed in the whole night. Strangely, he hardly felt any pain. He was sprawled across the floor on a mat, one ankle chained to the sturdy pinewood leg of the tool shelf.

He struggled to sit up, tugged experimentally at the chain, which didn't budge. Meanwhile, he listened to the voices, hoping to pick up any clues that might help him escape.

"Are you working for me, or not?" said Nadira.

"Of course I'm working for you," Akim replied. "But I am also employed by…another party."

"I don't understand why we can't just use a truth drug. He's had enough punishment—"

"Enough? After all you've said about him, Nadira?"

"I've lost my….appetite for it, Akim. It makes me feel sick, doing this. I can't just keep pretending I'm not…acting like our enemies. I want to be better than that.

"And I don't see why our contact cares so much about the secret. It's not the one he wanted in the first place, but he seems to want it just as much, even though he doesn't know what it is."

"_We_ want it just as much."

"That's because we can't go back empty-handed. I have to have something to give to our people."

"I see," said Akim. "So you want me to ask our contact for some kind of truth drug?"

"It'll probably be more effective than what we've been doing. And when we have the information, we can leave this place for good."

"Are you sure you'll be okay here by yourself?"

"I'll be fine. You left me here yesterday, and nothing happened."

"I don't like leaving you alone."

"I have my gun. And as long as he's chained securely—"

"He is."

"Go on, Akim. The sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back."

The rustling of footsteps as Akim must've walked away through the grass.

A few minutes later, Nadira appeared in the doorway.

"You're awake," she said. "How are you feeling?"

The raging, consuming pain had faded to multiple aches. "Much better. What was in that syringe?"

"All I know is that it has a lot of restorative powers."

He tried moving the arm that had been stabbed. That hurt, and he resolved not to attempt it again. "Where did you get it?"

"What does it matter, as long as it works?"

"Did you get it from your contact?"

"You heard."

"Yes. I also heard that you wanted to ask him for a truth drug. Why the change in tactics?"

"It's not what Noor would have wanted." She unslung the pack from her shoulder, carefully sat down opposite him, and leaned against the wall, after brushing cobwebs off of it. She opened the pack, and took out two water bottles. One of them she rolled over to him. He reached it with his left hand, and twisted the top off. With difficulty, he was able to drink it. She took out some bread from her pack, and tossed a piece to him. He tried to catch it, but it fell onto the dusty floor.

He leaned over to pick it up; his shoulder sparked with pain. Breathing hard, he snatched it from the floor, and took a bite. It was hard to eat with his still-swollen face, but it was worth it. Crusty on the outside, soft on the inside, it tasted better than any other bread he'd had in a long time.

He finished it, and leaned against the tool shelf leg. Even eating was exhausting.

"I must look terrible," he said, half to himself, wondering what he looked like. He rubbed his jaw; there was a day's growth of a beard there.

"You do, kind of," said Nadira, tipping her head. "But you look a lot better than yesterday."

"Not that there was much to look at to begin with."

"I don't know about that. You don't look like a hardened criminal."

"Thanks."

"What I mean is, even when I saw you the first time, I thought, he couldn't be a cold-blooded murderer. There is too much…good in his eyes."

"Appearances can be deceiving."

"But I can tell you're not all bad. You have probably done some good things in your life." She smiled wryly.

"I have tried. But lately, I have gotten lost, and all that I was entangled in resulted in –what I can never forgive myself for. All that you have done to me—it's not enough to make up for what I've done."

"But I shouldn't have…hurt you anyway. It was wrong to let myself get so carried away, I didn't even care what Noor would have wanted. I suppose you could say I got lost too. I'm sorry for—" she waved her hand in his general direction—"this."

"Well—I can't say it was fun. But I do understand, a little."

"Unless you're really trying to manipulate me, Jason Whittaker, you sure aren't what I expected." She took another drink from her water bottle. "Are you sure you don't want to just tell me the truth? It could save us a lot of trouble. You want to go home, don't you?"

He would do anything to be back in town, to see his father again. For a while there, he'd thought he might not make it. But now, hope dangled in front of him, a tantalizing prize.

"Very much."

"Do you have family in Odyssey?" asked Nadira.

He hesitated, though he didn't know why he couldn't tell her. "My father. He owns an ice cream shop called Whit's End… Get it?"

"Whit's End…Whit's End…Oh, I get it."

He wasn't quite sure if she did.

"Yeah." He smiled. "It's probably a little harder to understand if you're a non-native speaker."

"Maybe, when I'm done here, I will go see what it is like."

"Maybe I will show you around." Though the very idea of it struck him as odd—him showing Whit's End to the one who'd had him tortured. It was true; they were not likely to become fast friends.

"Is your mother in Odyssey too?" she asked.

"No. She died a long time ago."

"How old were you?"

"I was just out of college—somewhere, off gallivanting around the world. I always regret not being there during her final days…She was very sick, at the end."

"I'm…sorry." She looked down. "I was there, when my mother died. In the hospital. She was having my sister…For a whole year after she was born, I wouldn't even look at her."

"Noor?"

She nodded. "My other two siblings died before they were born. I…wished the same thing on Noor. I hated her for killing my mother." Grief haunted her face. "I tried to resist her for a long time. But she wouldn't stop…loving me. She loved me even though I hated her. And she had such a wonderful smile—it lit something up inside me. And then, even though we were eleven years apart, we did everything together. She was so much a part of my life…. I don't think you could understand how close we were."

"Maybe more than you think. I mean, our relationship was different, and we were eight years apart, but my brother and I were close too."

"You have a brother?"

"Had. He died in Vietnam. I still miss him so much. Part of me still wishes that I would have been able to convince him not to go…But Jerry would never have gone back on his commitment to his country, to his family. To me. There's so much about him that I should be…but I could never measure up to."

Nadira leaned forward. "It's the same with me and Noor. She was a born leader. She was just as smart as me, even though she was so much younger. And such faith she had! That's why it was so shocking when she became a Christian."

"She became a Christian?"

Nadira nodded. "I've never told anyone this. Most people never knew…

"She'd been hanging around some Christian friends; things like religious barriers didn't bother her. Then one day she told me the secret, and…well, it took me a long time to get over it. That was about a year before…what happened.

"Anyway, she was even stronger in Christianity than Islam, reading the Bible every night. I tried to keep it from my father; we both knew how he'd react if he found out. It's not that we're such devout Muslims, but what it would do to our reputation… Well. As far as I know, no one else ever knew, and I'm not about to tell my father."

Something struck him. "She was a testimony that day."

"What?"

"She must've known what would happen if she stepped in front of the man with the gun. But she did it anyway. She was showing her love for your father by giving her life in his place. Like Jesus did."

"Don't turn this into some sermon."

"I—don't mean to. It's just that—she knew where she was going.

"And I don't have any right to preach to you…I just…have heard that the ultimate test of love is sacrifice."

"And I have heard that the Bible says to love your enemies. That is asking too much."

"Jesus died for the ones who hated Him."

"And I suppose you would follow in the footsteps of the great Prophet?"

"I can't compare myself with Him. But I hope that if it came down to it, I would give my life for someone else. Even for my enemies."

"You would die for me or Akim? If anything, we qualify as your enemies."

"I hope that I would."

"Ha!" She stood. "I'll believe that when I see it. Maybe you_ are_ trying to manipulate me into sympathizing with you."

She stepped over to him, looked down at him. For a moment, he thought she'd slap him again. Then, she turned on her heel and walked out the door.

It's true, he thought. I can't know what I'd do in that situation unless it actually happened. Would I die in her place? Or would my sense of self-preservation kick in?

In any case, I have no credibility. There's no way I can convince her of anything without actions to back it up—and I can't deny it, I hope it would never come to that. It's looking like she might actually let me go, though there's no way I'm going to give her that information. If the truth drug's as potent as that restorative drug, though, I may not have a choice…

He pulled himself to his feet, and shuffled back and forth, as far as the chain would let him, getting his strength back as the mountain air filled his lungs. He almost felt…normal again.

The sun was nearly at its zenith by the time someone reentered the shed.

It was Akim and a strange man, Nadira trailing them both, breathless.

The man stepped forward, looked Jason up and down. He was tall, lithe, with dark blond hair and tanned skin. His gray eyes were cold.

"So this is the man who has been giving you all this trouble."

"If could have some more time with him—" said Akim.

"No offense, Akim, but you are not a professional at this. You might eventually get the intel, but things have changed, and we are running out of time."

"I still don't understand why we can't use a truth serum of some sort," said Nadira.

"We have our reasons. Do what I tell you, or stay out of my way."

He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, which complemented his tan pants and polished shoes. Jason wondered how he'd gotten this far up the mountain without getting so much as a speck of dust on his clothes.

He reached in his pocket, and pulled out a cigarette. Touched it with the flame from a lighter, and the toxic smell filled the room.

"Now," he said, "I think it's time we begin."


	9. Gray

"My alias is Gray," said the man, after taking a smoke from the cigarette. "Please, sit."

"What's your real name?"

Gray ignored his question. "Sit, if you would."

"I'd rather stand, thank you."

"I think you would rather sit, Jason. You would feel much more comfortable."

"I've been sitting far too much lately."

"Suit yourself."

From the back of the shed, he dragged the chair that Jason had been bound in. Despite himself, he recoiled when he saw it. The ropes were long gone, but there were bloodstains on it. His blood.

Gray sat down, casually blowing out a cloud of smoke. Jason had always hated cigarettes; he'd tried one once in middle school, and his father had made sure he'd never try one again.

This man (whatever his real name was) had implied he was a professional interrogator. That made everything he said and did suspect to being a tactic to elicit information. With Akim and Nadira, he had just had to withstand the pain and not let it have anything to do with what they were asking him. A trained interrogator was a different story. Jason wouldn't put it past him to be using the cigarette, not for his own sake, but to discomfit him, the prisoner; he'd heard of such methods. It reminded the prisoner of who was in control of his environment, and made him wonder whether or not the cigarette would be used as a tool of torture.

On the other hand, he was on familiar turf now. Nadira and Akim had been wild cards; you never knew how someone untrained would act. During training with the Agency, Jason had learned most of the tricks counterintelligence interrogators used. He'd passed those tests with flying colors.

No matter how good you were, though, there was always someone who was better. Jason would have to study Gray, gather information from him at the same time he was resisting the interrogation, in order to get an idea of who he was dealing with and how he could prevail.

"When did you first find out about the weapon?" asked Gray. Akim stood, hands behind his back, near Nadira; Nadira leaned against the wall, looking on with interest.

"I'm not going to answer any of your questions, you know."

"The answer to that question isn't classified."

"Do I look like I've been willing to cooperate?"

"You look like you could use a rest from not cooperating."

Jason leaned back against the tool shelf. "So you're the good cop, is that it?"

"Maybe."

"That's a pretty old trick."

"Would you rather we used a different 'trick'?" He rose, and walked toward Jason. "For instance, I could use this—" he brandished his cigarette, the smoke trailing through the air—"as motivation."

Jason tried to keep his face impassive. "Torture doesn't work."

Gray clicked his tongue. "That's just an official platitude. You and I both know that in expert hands, it does work. Bludgeoning your way through, though, like amateurs—" he waved in the general direction of Akim and Nadira—"most often results in either false intel, or an unconscious subject." He dropped the cigarette onto the floor, ground it with his heel.

"It is true that one of my problems is that you are a seasoned agent who's been interrogated several times before. You can resist most forms of questioning—intimidation, deprivation, physical pain, even most chemical coercion."

"So you might as well give up now."

"Except that if I gave up, I'd be losing a very valuable commodity."

"You don't even know what it is. How do you know how valuable it is?"

"You created an elaborate diversion in Egypt for the sake of escaping with the weapon. Anything worth that much trouble is worth looking into."

"Just how do you fit into all of this? Are you working for Nadira, or is it the other way around?"

Gray smiled. "Let's just say we have mutual interests.

"So, I'm curious. How would you elicit high-stakes intel from a recalcitrant subject-himself an agent with almost twenty years of experience?"

"You want to know how I would do things."

"One agent to another."

"Well," said Jason, "I wouldn't use torture, for one. And, let me see. I'd give the agent a nice, comfortable place to sit down. I'd give him water, food. I'd let him sleep without knocking him out first. In fact, I'd give him the best treatment possible."

"And you think this would get results."

"Maybe, maybe not. But my conscience would be clear."

"In this business, a conscience is a liability."

"I believe that we should at least try to live up to the ideals that we uphold."

"Perhaps the ones who cling to their ideals at the cost of practicality are doing their cause a disservice by not being willing to sacrifice everything, even their souls, to defeat the adversaries of their cause."

"By winning that way, haven't you changed what you've won? I mean, if you're willing to go that far, I'm not sure I'd want to live in a world like that. It sounds a little too much like Nazi Germany. Or a terrorist's paradise."

"We're talking about extremes there, I suppose. Selling your soul might not be completely necessary in this game, but compromise is. For instance, a spy has to construct a complex lie in order to survive long enough to perform his duty. It's just the way things are."

"We do have to compromise. But when you get so absorbed in the performance of your role you forget even what truth looks like, you've betrayed your mission."

"How so?"

"I lost sight of it so much that I caused the death of an innocent girl. Nadira's sister."

"It wasn't your fault."

"But what I did resulted in her death."

"Some would say you are being overly sensitive. These things happen. 'Acceptable collateral' I believe is the term."

Jason whirled on Gray, chain clinking, pulling against his ankle. Gray stepped back, out of his reach.

"I will never accept an innocent life as merely 'collateral'," said Jason.

Gray looked at him, as if sizing him up. "You're a good agent, Jason. I've seen your file. I've also seen the notes on why you left. It was not even about the death of a girl at that point. It was about 'feelings'. You felt you'd gone too far in pursuit of Grote, lied for the sake of the truth. You have a conscience, fine. But if you'd learn to ignore it, not all the time, but when it matters, you'd still be working for the Agency. Still doing good, putting the 'bad guys' in prison."

"Sorry, but some things are even more important to me than my job. My relationship with people I love. With God."

"God," scoffed Gray. "_That_ would open a whole new avenue of discussion.

"But, as interesting as this has been, I want to keep things moving.

"Akim—come over here."

Akim stepped over beside Gray. "Yes?"

"Make sure the prisoner does what I tell him."

Akim nodded.

Gray looked at Jason. "Take off your clothes."

Shock ran down Jason's spine. No way was he going to comply with such an order, though he knew he probably had little choice in the matter.

"Just your shirt will do at the moment," said Gray.

Jason fingered his tattered shirt. There wasn't much left of it; one sleeve was torn off, and all the buttons had been ripped off the front. Though it would hurt to take it off, he wouldn't miss it much.

But if he did comply, it would be an act of submission. He would concede nothing willingly.

"I don't see what you need it for."

Gray nodded. Akim stepped over to Jason.

Jason backed away until the chain tugged at his ankle. In a flash, Akim grabbed his throat, fingers digging into his neck. As he struggled to breathe, Akim forced him to his knees. With his other hand, he tugged the shirt off his shoulders, yanking it down his arms. Pain shot through his injured shoulder.

"Now, we need him in a more restrained position. We don't have a lot to work with in this place, so we'll have to improvise." He looked up at the ceiling. "Ah, there. A crossbeam. Take your rope, and sling it up there."

Akim took some rope from in his pack. It took two attempts, but he flung it so that both ends dangled down onto the floor.

"Good. Now attach one end to his wrist."

"Which one?"

"The left wrist."

"His left shoulder is injured."

"That's why I want that one."

As Akim advanced on him, Jason lashed out with his fist, hitting the larger man in the jaw. Despite his weakened state, Jason was glad to see that he had enough strength to make Akim reel backwards, though it felt like his hand had hurtled into solid rock.

Before Akim could recover, Jason punched him in the stomach, and he doubled over.

"Enough," said Gray. He strode over to Jason, and rammed his fist toward his face. Jason blocked him with his arm. But then, Gray's hand slammed down against his shoulder, sending him to his knees. Gray kicked him in the side. He collapsed to the floor, unable to keep his face from hitting the hard cement.

He tried to struggle up again but Gray's heel ground into his back.

"Now you may tie his wrist, Akim."

Kneeling on the floor, Akim pulled Jason's arm out straight. Jason gasped in pain as the shoulder wound felt like it had burst open again. The rope was pulled tight around his wrist.

Gray ordered Akim to pull the other end of the rope. Jason braced himself but was not able to anticipate the inferno of pain as the strained muscles in his shoulder tugged against the knife wound.

The rope was tied so that he dangled several inches above the floor, all his weight relying on one injured arm.

Agony surged through his veins, and along with it, rage. The cold, callous voice of Gray had ripped a wide swath of hatred across his heart.

Gray sat back down, looking up at him. "I think we might as well strip him the rest of the way. Go ahead, Akim."

"But—" said Akim. "I would rather—"

"Whose orders are you obeying?"

Nadira stepped forward. Her face looked gray, her dark eyes wide and earnest. "Please, don't do this. Isn't this enough? Leave him some dignity."

"This is not about dignity, Nadira."

"There's a point when—it's going too far."

"I hope you won't continue to interfere in this interrogation. If so, our interests may be at cross-purposes."

"Listen," said Akim. "She is Muslim. It is not…proper for her to see a man…unclothed. For her sake, not his."

"Oh, very well. I will humor you both—this once.

"Now, Akim, take the rest of the rope that you have. Knot it in several different places, more heavily at one end than the other."

Jason shivered as he hung there; it seemed much colder, but it was probably more from shock than anything. He was grateful to Nadira for taking his side; even Akim, though that was tempered by the fact that Akim had no qualms about hurting him.

Gray on the other hand—Anger gripped him, directed against this man who had crushed his hope of escape.

As the knotted rope crashed into his back, sending fireworks of pain across it, he held onto that anger, and it gave him strength.

I may not be an agent at the moment, but I will stay true to what I have vowed to protect. I will give my life before I give my secrets.

I will not let this Nazi throwback beat me at my own game.

Even the pain faded as he thought this, fortified by rage and the tenacity of a man who would always be a secret agent at heart.


	10. Clues

Nadira held the video camera, her hand shaking. She tried to steady it, but then thought, I didn't want to be filming this in the first place.

She didn't even want to look at what was going on in front of the camera, but she had to in order to make sure there were no faces in it, other than that of the victim, as Gray had instructed.

She thought of him as the victim now. She could never forgive him for what he had done, but he had become human to her in the past two days. Against her will, she had come to see him, not as a ruthless killer, but as a man who had his own ideas, reasons, and feelings. In any case, she would never have gone this far, even in the midst of her worst hatred.

Jason hung by his injured arm, his skin sheened with sweat, brown hair plastered over his forehead. Across of the scars from the day before, large bruises had formed on his chest and back. Gray had taken over the whipping from Akim, who had taken a break outside, and was now sauntering around him, taunting him with the possibility of the next blow. Into the end of the short rope, he had embedded shards of glass and nails that had been lying around the shed.

So far, Jason had not given Gray the satisfaction of a single word. Only his eyes were eloquent, following Gray wherever he moved, burning with defiance.

Gray swung the whip forward. It raked across Jason's chest, ripping a bloody path across his skin.

Sickened, Nadira fought the urge to turn away. I have to keep filming, she thought, though she wasn't sure why. Why did they need to document this? She would have thought the less evidence of their presence, the better. But Gray seemed to have his own agenda, as dictated by their mysterious, nameless contact, who had helped Nadira find "Kohl's" true identity after the trail ran cold.

It still baffled her as to how her contact had found her, and found out what she was after; he seemed to have unlimited resources, except when it came to finding the agent himself. His motives were simple: he'd wanted to partner with her in order to gain his share of the weapon. The only stipulation was that she would never know his identity, contacting him only through his anonymous cell phone number. But now he'd sent this Gray, apparently dissatisfied with her inability to get any information from Jason.

Not that Gray was faring any better.

Blood now streaked Jason's chest, welling up from numerous slashes. The whip thwacked down once more, catching against his skin. Gray yanked it off and stood, blood dripping from the whip to pool at his feet.

Gray stepped behind Jason's back.

"Nadira, I want to get some footage from this side now."

"Hasn't he had enough?"

"I will be the judge of that. Besides, he has said nothing yet."

"He needs a break, or he won't be able to speak."

"We will stop after this. Then you can upload the file to my computer."

"I still don't see why we need to record this."

"My employer has his reasons. If you want his continued assistance, you will comply with his orders."

"His orders? I work _with_ him, not for him."

"Of course. But without his assistance, how far do you think you would have gotten?"

Not far, she thought. But that doesn't mean he can treat me like an employee. Does he believe that I am the lesser partner? If so, does he think he's entitled to the larger share? I started this. He should be grateful for that.

And now, this is getting out of hand…and there isn't much I can do about it.

The whip cracked across Jason's back, drawing more blood. Part of her longed to grab the whip away and stop this. Or order Akim to make him stop—

If he stops, though, will I get the information that I need? she wondered.

But how much am I really willing to sacrifice for this unknown commodity? Should I just stand by and watch as this man is tortured half to death? It's not like I'm doing it myself. But I _am _benefiting from it. Isn't that almost the same as if I were the one wielding the whip?

For the first time, she contemplated just leaving. Giving up on this, letting her contact have the weapon.

But if she left, she would have gotten this far for nothing. All her work, all her searching, would be in vain.

And so she stayed, and uploaded the video to the computer. Even as she did, though, she thought, there has to be a way to do this without ripping into a man and taking his humanity from him, piece by piece…and, by my complicity, shredding my own humanity in the process.

JJJJJ

The clock on the wall chimed one-thirty. About this time yesterday, Whit had discovered that his son had been kidnapped. And in all those hours, he had slept for maybe three.

After studying the photo for about two hours after Might had called, there was nothing else he could do, so he came to his son's violated house. He hadn't touched anything, because it was a crime scene, except that he'd lay down in his son's bed, exhausted. But he still hadn't been able to go to sleep, so he'd sat in front of the computer, waiting for the file that Might had said he was going to send.

It had never come. Whit had fallen asleep in front of the computer at about 5 a.m. and slept till 8. He'd jumped awake, and thought all that had happened was just a nightmare.

Until he saw the mess the room was in, and reality had slammed back into him.

My son has been kidnapped. He is being tortured. For my sake.

He hadn't even gone to church this morning; he wouldn't have been able to pretend that everything was all right when it wasn't, since he couldn't tell anyone what was going on. Plus, he was exhausted. Besides not sleeping much, barely eating except for picking some things out of his son's cupboard, all this had taken its toll on him.

I'm not as young as I used to be, he thought. But as I heard someone say once, when you start thinking you're old, real old age starts creeping up on you …

That's another reason to exchange myself. My son still has so much life ahead of him.

The phone rang into the silence. He jumped. Then pressed the phone to his ear.

"Yes?"

"Whit!" It was Connie. Relief washed over him. "Are you okay? I haven't heard from you today."

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound very good."

"Thanks."

"I mean—"

He smiled. "It's okay, Connie. I just…didn't sleep much last night."

"Me either. I couldn't stop thinking about Jason.

"I...was glad I had a headache, so I wouldn't have to pretend I was all happy. I could just lie in bed. But I'm feeling better now. Do you want some company?"

"I suppose I would. If you wouldn't mind."

"I'll be right over. Are you at your house?"

"I'm at Jason's. Do you know where it is?"

"Kinda."

"It's—" There was a beep. Call waiting. "Connie—I have a call. I think it might be Might. The person I think is doing this."

"Oh—I'll call back. Wait, I have a call too."

He answered the call; it was Might, or whatever he called himself now.

"Good afternoon. I've sent you a file with some riveting new footage."

"Listen, Might—"

"It's Will."

"Will?"

"You may call me Will now."

"Might—and Will. I see. Both have double meanings."

"You're quick for an old man."

"Yes, well, I'm the same 'old man' you tried to go up against last time."

"I know. You thwarted me. You were good. But this time, I have you at a distinct disadvantage. And you and your son are just two small pawns in the middle of a grand master's strategy."

"So this isn't about revenge?"

"Revenge? Maybe, just a little. But mainly, I know you. I've read up on your file. You have something I want, and I know how to hit you where it hurts."

"Who are you, really?"

"That, my dear Whit, you will never find out. No one will, until I have the world in my hands."

"It's the world you're after? That game's been played before."

"Not like this. I am snatching up piece after piece, before anyone else even realizes they're in the game."

"I see why you'd want Zephyr. That's also why I can't give it to you."

"Maybe you'll change your mind once you see what has been done to your son. The pain he is in." The man almost sounded gleeful, talking about Jason like that. Whit resisted the urge to snap back at him with an insult.

"I will exchange myself for my son."

"Noble gesture. But I won't be able to take you up on that."

"Why not?"

"Because that's not how this game is played.

"Open the file, Whit. The next time I call, I expect you to have made the right decision."

After he hung up, Whit leaned his head in his hand, feeling almost faint. He had been counting on giving himself up for lost, but Might, or Will, had dismissed his offer without consideration.

But it made more sense now. Will wasn't just a hacker. Getting Zephyr was part of a larger plot for world domination. If not for the program, Whit might have dismissed Will as all bluster. But with Zephyr in his possession, even a moderately resourceful person would be able to make a large step toward his goals. It was that powerful a program.

I shouldn't have been involved with it in the first place, he thought. But I didn't know of its capabilities when I started. And then, I was so invested in its completion, I was blinded to the fact it had little real world application, beyond its parasitic nature.

Dreading what he'd find, he checked his inbox. Sure enough, there was a new email with an attachment.

He opened it.

At first the shaky video aimed down at the floor. Then, it swung upwards, revealing Jason, hanging by his wrist, most of his clothes missing—

Pain shot through Whit's heart. He knew there was more to come.

Two men took turns beating him with a knotted rope. The camera never showed their faces. After a cut in the film, something must've been added to the rope, for when the makeshift whip dragged across his skin, it left more than bruises. By the end, Jason's arms, back, chest, even face were torn and bleeding.

Whit couldn't imagine the pain he was in. Still, something gave him hope. His eyes. They were not listless, broken; they blazed with defiance, showing that it was still the Jason he knew. The one who would never give up.

No matter what, he didn't want his son to have to go through this. Alone.

No, not alone.

Heavenly Father, protect my son. Make your presence known to him in that place. Show him—somehow, in all that darkness—show him the depths of your love.

When Whit called Connie to tell her Jason's address, he found out she had gotten a call from Will too, along with a shorter version of the video file on her phone. She was so upset she could barely drive, though she was already on her way over.

After letting her in, he sat with her on Jason's couch in the middle of the destroyed living room, and they prayed together.

"It's my fault," she said, tears streaking her face over her freckles. "I mean, he said it was my fault. He told me—it was because I found out, that they did that to him. And he said if I told anyone, he'd kill Jason. I should've just left it alone, but I had to see what you were doing in that room and now—" She shook her head, eyes closed.

Whit squeezed her shoulder. "Connie, it's not your fault. Will is the one doing this.

"If anything, it's my fault. I should've been more careful, not left the door to the secret room open. I didn't think anyone was there…But it goes further than that. I created Zephyr. If I'd've known this would happen, I'd've destroyed it completely, even though it wasn't mine to destroy.

"It's too powerful. What it does is…enslaves other programs. In theory, it could spread throughout the world like a virus, taking over every computer that's connected to the Internet.

"But the only thing that matters now—is that I can't give him the program. But I can't let my son bear the consequences for something I did."

Connie sniffed. "We…could look at the video some more. I don't want to ever see it again, but maybe it'll give us some clues."

"We didn't get any clues from the picture, but you're right. There's a lot more to work with in the video. No matter how careful Will might have been, there might be something that gives him away."

Over the next hour, they played the video over and over. Connie had to get up several times, unable to face Jason's torture again and again. Whit tried to focus as much as possible on the background; it pained him to see his son being whipped before his eyes. But if there was a chance they could save him…

There was nothing about the place he was held in that looked familiar to either of them. It was built out of some dark boards, and there was a shelf with some rusty tools on it. A board behind him had a knothole that looked like a star, but that was the only thing distinctive about it.

Connie suggested they take a break, and Whit agreed. He needed some fresh air. They walked about a mile down to McCalister Park. Whit thought it was interesting that, without even intending to, he naturally gravitated toward Whit's End. As if it was more of a home than his own.

They sat down on a bench to rest. Birds flitted through the trees, singing about the coming of evening. Beyond the frame of maples branches, Odyssey was bathed in golden sunlight, the people inside its buildings and homes innocent of the horror that three of its citizens were facing.

Whit wished there was some way to know where Jason was, some way to rescue him. He didn't want his little boy to have to go through another night away from home, in a strange place, enemies surrounding him and hurting him.

This was the worst nightmare for a parent. It didn't matter that Jason was grown up. He was still his son, his and Jenny's youngest. Their baby boy. He remembered Jenny, holding him after he was born, glowing with happy exhaustion, her red hair tumbling down over her shoulders, and that tiny little bundle with dark brown hair…

"He has your eyes," Jenny had said. And Whit had held him, kissed him, and wanted nothing more than to protect him from everything evil in the world—

I'm sorry Jenny, he thought. I couldn't keep him safe….In fact, in more ways than one, I'm responsible for his fate…

Perhaps it is best that I give Will the program. We can always try to get it back—trace it to its source. Catch this criminal, make him pay for what he's done.

Connie nudged Whit's shoulder. "It looks like Emily," she said.

Sure enough, Emily pedaled up on her bike. "Hi, Mr. Whittaker! Hi Connie!" She slid the bike to a stop and jumped off. "Even though it's Sunday, I thought you might be at Whit's End. I'm glad I found you!" She held a package in her hand.

"Hey—you guys okay? You don't look very well."

"Neither of us slept very much last night," said Connie.

"Well, I'll make sure to pray for you! I'll tell Mom and Dad too, if I remember.

"But look. This might make you feel better." She sat down beside Connie, and looked at Whit. "You know how I was on a case and you told me not to get carried away? I did. Me and Matthew spied on my neighbors, and we heard that grinding noise again last night. We….kind of trespassed, but we thought it was okay because we thought they were counterfeiting money.

"Then, just as we were looking in the window of the basement, somebody came around behind us! It wasn't a criminal. It was a woman called Mrs. Steward. She invited us in to eat cookies and milk. It turns out, her son was home for the first time in ages, and he was using the tools in the basement to finish something his grandfather had been making. Here. Here's a picture." She showed them a picture of a wood carving. It was beautiful—a galloping horse that looked almost like it was in motion. Something about it was familiar… "Her son's learning how to make them like her grandfather did. His name was Zebulon. Isn't that a funny name?"

Something clicked. "I remember a Zebulon…used to make carvings like that. Something happened to him…"

"That's the other part of the story. It's kind of sad. He made all these wood carvings for the kids around town. But one day there was a huge storm, and his house fell down the mountain in a rockslide. He kind of went crazy after that, and Mrs. Steward's mother had to take care of him, even though he always yelled at her and said terrible things to her. Only recently she found some old pictures of what the house used to look like, and Zebulon's workshop. She's trying to understand him, in order to forgive him for how he acted when she was growing up.

"Here's some of the pictures."

She handed them to Whit, who flipped through them. Suddenly, one caught his eye. The tool shed, decked out with toys, and shiny new tools. Next to a half-finished running horse was a knothole in the shape of a star.

The exact same shape as the one in the shed where Jason was being held.

In a place right near Odyssey. Forrest Mountain.

Whit breathed a prayer of thanks, and thanked Emily.

"For what?" she said.

"For being an excellent detective."

She giggled, as if she didn't quite believe him. Then she dashed off into the bright sunlight in the west.

Whit turned to Connie. "I think I know where Jason is."

"I saw it too," she said, her eyes sparkling with the same hope that filled his heart.


	11. Broken

The fog of the drugs that had been injected into his system gradually faded. He was lying against the wall of the shed, and no one was in sight. For the moment, there was no pain.

He tried to sit up, and managed to prop himself up against the wall, but by this time, pain had smoldered back into existence, snapping into his back, clamping down on his chest. But the worst was his arm. Beneath the fire that ringed his shoulder, his arm hung listlessly at his side. It must've been dislocated, he realized, but he didn't remember it happening.

He dragged himself to the door, looked out. Could it be possible that they'd just left him here, unrestrained?

But then, around the corner, he glimpsed Gray, standing by the wall, looking out over the valley. He darted back inside, gasping in pain as his dislocated shoulder twisted sideways.

Before he could recover, Gray stepped back in, his nondescript Germanic face studying him.

"Are you ready to continue?" he asked. He pulled something from his pocket. A syringe. "During the last session, you were very forthcoming. I want you to tell me more. Maybe you will without my having to use this."

Did I really give in so easily? Jason wondered. I can't have—after all, I trained in resisting interrogation drugs of all types. With some, you can't remember what happened under their influence, which gives the interrogator a way to manipulate you into giving something away.

"That trick's not going to work on me," said Jason.

"Well, then, we'll have to give you some more." He crouched down, grabbed Jason's dislocated arm. Plunged the needle into it. He couldn't pull away, because he knew how much it would hurt if he did.

Everything Gray did was calculated, Jason knew by now. Causing him pain was just part of the equation. This cold indifference to suffering was harder to deal with than the heat of Nadira's anger. Jason had killed in the name of his country before; mostly, it had been people like this, with their callous disregard for human life, who, in his opinion, had no souls left to save.

Now he was the victim of one of them. Anger burned inside him—he would not, could not, give this man what he knew. I can't have given in so soon, he told himself, though a part of him wasn't sure.

And now, the drug was taking effect, soothing his nerves, taking the edge off his pain. He carefully set up blocks in his mind, severing contact with his vital secret in order to keep it protected.

The hypnotic pull of the drug was not unlike pentothal sodium, one of the drugs he'd been trained to resist. There was no truth drug invented that could break through the mental barriers of a trained agent if he was strong enough.

I will not give this man the satisfaction, he thought.

He sat back, his good shoulder leaning against the wall, knowing at the moment he had no chance of escape. An artificial sense of calm swept through him. Don't waste your energy fighting it, he told himself. Just don't tell him what he wants, and it'll be over soon.

The side effect of the drug was the dulling of his senses, for which he was grateful, dousing the fire that raged over his skin.

Gray scraped the chair across the floor and sat down in front of him. "I must say, I'm disappointed."

"What do you mean?"

"During the first session, you broke. You spilled everything willingly."

"I know…what you're doing…"

"You didn't even try to resist. Did you neglect that part of your training, or are you really that weak? All this is is sodium amytal. Basic." He held up the empty syringe.

"I don't believe you." He was having trouble remembering why he didn't believe this. "I didn't break after—all this." He looked down at his arm, his lacerated skin.

"This? This is nothing. It helped soften you up; I just had to give you a little encouragement—and you toppled."

"I would never give away my country's secrets."

"But you did. Much sooner than I expected."

"What is the weapon then? If I told you…. you must know."

"I do know. I also have more insight into your character now. You only got accepted into the Agency on the influence of your father, didn't you? It wouldn't surprise me if he had doctored the reports of your accomplishments."

"He…wouldn't do that."

"But without him, you never would have gotten as far as you did. What would your brother think of you?"

"Don't you dare speak of him!" He hated the fact that this man knew anything about his family.

"You've been trying to follow in his footsteps ever since his death—and failing miserably."

"No!" Jason lunged forward, but was unable to hold himself up. Gray grasped his shoulder, pushed him gently back.

"You are nothing compared to what he was. Look at you. Can't even sit up straight. Where is your strength now?"

An image of himself, this pathetic half-naked creature with shredded skin, kneeling on the floor, contrasted with the shining image of his brother, in his dress uniform, tall, heroic, marching to the end with his head held high.

Who am I, compared to him? What have I done? I have lied, cheated, lived in the shadows. I have killed innocents.

What do I truly have left?

My father.

But what would he think of me? How could I ever tell him what I have done? He would never have sacrificed his values like I have.

But—if this secret is really all I have left, then that's what I have to hold onto.

"No," he said. "I'll never give it to you."

"You already have. There's just a little more I need to know—and you just need a little more motivation. It shouldn't take much. Good thing, because I need to get this assignment over with; it was barely worth my time in the first place."

He grabbed Jason's hair, pulled his head back. "You could spare yourself, if you just told me where the weapon is."

"I …don't know where it ishhh…." His speech slurred. Darkness pulled at the edge of his vision.

Just then, Nadira stepped through the door, Akim towering next to her.

"Has he said anything yet?" she asked, voice indistinct amid the narcotic haze.

"Not with this dose. If we want to get out of here anytime soon, we're going to have to go to extreme measures."

"I thought the drugs were working."

"There is no such thing as a miracle drug when it comes to a trained agent. My employer is getting impatient. And you want to go home, don't you?"

"Very much so," she said.

"Well then. Akim, help me with him."

They pulled Jason up against the wall. He was unable to stand on his own. Akim held him there, while Gray walked across the room to the tool shelf.

"Nadira," he said, fiddling with the tools, "take out the camera. If anything, we want to have footage of him when he breaks."

She stood in front of Jason, holding the camera at her side, not attempting to film. Eyes brimming with conflict, she looked away.

Gray strode back over. In his hand, he held –Jason's breath caught in his throat.

A hammer and nails.

"Hold his arm out please. His left arm."

Akim pulled his arm away from his body. He knew he should feel pain, but he didn't. Not yet.

"The drug should be fading by now. It's no good if he can't feel it, but here. Lay his hand against the wood, like this." He raised his hand, palm facing backwards.

As awareness returned to him, Jason tried to struggle away. Akim grasped his shoulder, pressing him backwards.

"Akim," said Nadira, "I don't think you should do this."

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" said Akim.

"Not this, no. I want you to stop."

"Is that an order?" he said.

"Yes."

Akim stepped back, letting Jason go. He nearly collapsed to his knees, but managed to stay on his feet by grasping the wall post next to him with his right arm.

"Akim," said Gray warningly

"I don't follow your orders."

"But you work for my employer. While I am here, I am his voice."

Akim looked at Gray, then back at Nadira. "I am working for him, too," he said. "I'm sorry, Nadira."

She looked at him, eyes narrowed. Akim stepped back and grabbed Jason's arm.

This time, it hurt. He bit his tongue in order not to scream.

Gray pressed the nail against his hand. In one swift blow, the hammer came down.

Agony burst like a supernova in his hand as the nail ripped through his skin on the way to the wood beneath.

Someone grabbed his chin. Forced him to look up. His hand was pierced to the wall, blood streaming off onto the floor.

"Now," said Gray, "you will tell me what the weapon is, or I will use another nail, and another, until your hand is mangled beyond repair."

What am I holding out for? he thought vaguely. As long as they don't know where the weapon is, what does it matter if they know what it does?

For a moment, he couldn't speak. Then, he said, as if reciting from a scientific manual, "It's an aerosol drug…developed for…certain mental disorders…like shell shock. Mind control is its accidental but potent application…."

Shame seized him as soon as the words left his mouth. I have given in, he thought, the full impact of what he'd done slamming into him, along with hatred at Gray for torturing him to the point it stripped all his training from him.

But how much longer could he hold out, not giving its location?

Would he end up giving in to this man who had all but torn his humanity from him?

As Gray pressed the second nail against his hand, he prayed, Lord, please help me get through this. Don't let me tell him anything. Before that happens, if at all possible, strike this man down. Kill him in agony.

The second nail, Gray took his time with.

Jason longed for unconsciousness, but all he was granted was a horrible lucidity. He felt every nuance of pain as the rusty nail burrowed through his flesh.

My God, kill him! Kill all of them!

It hit him like an electric bolt.

Another man had once been beaten, nailed to wood, like he was.

Only he had asked forgiveness for the ones who had done it to him. Not immediate torturous death.

Perhaps I am more like Gray in that way…I have that darkness inside me. I could never love my enemy.

I have, said a clear beautiful voice. I have done it for you. I have carried your sin. I can do this for you, too.

Dear Jesus, forgive me! he replied. Help me to love when I can't. Help me to forgive Gray—and Nadira, and Akim. My enemies—but ones that You love.

I will carry another burden for you as well, said the voice. You've been carrying it too long.

Strength was born anew in his heart. Not the burning, dark strength from hatred that burnt itself out, but a strong, clear light.

He would not give in. For there was one standing with him, one who would never fail him, even to the end.

"Where is this drug?" said Gray.

"It's –in a place I will never tell you. No one should have such a weapon. It should've been destroyed instead of hidden—but it will be as if it has been destroyed. I have a powerful ally."

"Ally? What ally?"

"My God is on my side," said Jason, smiling through tears of pain.

"God," said Gray. "I am the only god in this room." He pulled another nail from his pocket. This time, he touched the cold tip of the nail against the base of Jason's ring finger.

"Wait," said Nadira. She dropped the video camera, and it clattered to the floor.

"What is it now?"

"I don't think that I want a weapon like this. It is the devil who takes away free will, takes people's souls for his own. This should not end up in anyone's hands. Especially someone like you."

She raised her gun, aiming it at Gray's head. "Let him go."

"He still has information I need."

"I said, let him go! Akim?"

Akim nodded. He withdrew the large pistol from his belt, and pressed it against the base of Gray's skull. "Do as she says," he said.

Through the procedure that followed, Jason nearly passed out several times. As each nail was pulled from his hand, it hurt at least as much as it had going in. And he had a suspicion that Gray was making it even more painful than it had to be.

Both nails on the ground in a pool of blood, Akim wrapped Jason's hand in a piece of soft, patterned blue cloth. Jason realized it was Nadira's headscarf.

With his good hand, he applied direct pressure to the wounds, but was careful not to press too hard, for he was pretty sure at least one bone was broken.

"Now what?" said Akim, gesturing toward Gray with his gun. "Do we kill him?"

"I've had enough of death," replied Nadira. "Let's go home."

"It's your home, not mine."

"Akim, I'm sure my father will have a place for a good security guard in his business."

"Even an Israeli security guard?"

"We'll deal with that when we come to it. He's probably not very happy with me, either…"

She waved her gun at Gray, and she and Akim herded him out the door.

Jason followed, not sure what else to do. Now that no one was demanding information from him, he seemed to be a disposable commodity.

Outside, the sun was setting in the west, the orange and gold in the sky reflecting in Trickle Lake in the distance like a mirror of bronze.

Jason reached Nadira's side, emerging between the two of them, though she had yet to acknowledge he still existed.

Then, Gray stopped in his tracks, turning slowly, hands raised. "You two are making a mistake."

"I don't think so," said Nadira. "Move."

"Your mistake is thinking you could ever get the upper hand."

He flicked his wrist, and something silver flew through the air. Akim gasped, grasping his throat. As he fell to his knees, Gray ripped the pistol from his hand.

Akim choked, blood gurgling from his mouth. Nadira stepped toward him, horror on her face as the tiny blade drained her bodyguard of life. He collapsed among the flowers.

Gray stepped toward her. "Now, for you, my trembling little dear. If there's one mistake that my employer has made, it's involving civilians like you in the first place. Your unpredictable emotions would have been his undoing if he hadn't sent me in to troubleshoot this venture."

He cocked the gun.

Please, God, said Jason. Give me the strength. My last gift to You—a life for You to rescue.

Just before Gray pulled the trigger, Jason summoned all the energy within him, much more than he'd have had on his own. All the pain shed from him as he sprang in front of Nadira—

And the bullet meant for her exploded into his chest.

Just before the sky faded from his vision, he thought he saw something black against the pale twilight—and heard the chop-chop-chop of a helicopter circling the clearing, searching for a place to land.


	12. Defeat

Connie stirred, waking from her awkward position against the chair in the hospital waiting room. Sunlight filtered in through the blinds; a baby cried. Its mother bounced it in her arms, walking back and forth by the window.

That must've been what woke me up, she thought. Then it all rushed back to her. Discovering where Jason was. Telling the police as discreetly as possible. Renting a helicopter and pilot to fly to the former site of Zebulon's cabin, following the police helicopter as close as they dared.

They landed in the aftermath. There had been a gun battle, one woman shot in the leg, a man who'd been shot by the police leaving a trail of blood into the forest, another man, dead, some sort of blade in his throat.

And Jason, horribly wounded, blood spreading over his chest. The police were applying pressure to the gunshot wound and radioing in the ambulance. A policewoman ordered her to press a piece of cloth to it, but blood soaked it almost as soon as they tore a new piece.

It wasn't long before the hospital helicopter landed. After paramedics had rushed Jason off on a stretcher and the helicopter rose into the sky, Whit and Connie had left for the hospital in the rental helicopter.

She'd been there all night. For most of that time, she'd been pacing the halls while the surgeons worked to save Jason's life. A few hours ago, they'd come in and said he was stabilized; they'd gotten most of the internal bleeding under control. He was fortunate the bullet had missed his heart and hadn't done more damage at such close range.

After that, she must've nodded off. Now it was 7 a.m., and Whit was nowhere in sight. She got up, and took a drink from the water fountain.

As soon as she sat back down, Whit reappeared. His hair was in disarray, showing the missing top of his right ear, his old war wound. He looked thinner, infinitely weary.

"They said we can go and see him now. But…he's not conscious. And he's not in good shape."

"I want to see him anyway."

"They think he'll pull through. It's still just a seventy percent chance—but that's a lot more than it was last night." He shook his head, tears glimmering at the edge of his eyes. Her own breath caught in her throat as they walked down the hall. She wished she could speak, comfort him, but if she did, she knew she'd start crying again.

When they reached the room, she couldn't hold back the tears any more. Jason's whole face looked swollen. Bandages covered his chest and most of his visible skin. A breathing tube was taped to his mouth, and a respirator went up and down, in concert with the beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor. She made her way through all the equipment, and knelt beside the IV stand.

It was hard to believe this was the Jason she knew, the man who was so strong, so full of life. She touched his hair, the only way to be sure to touch him without hurting him, and carefully smoothed it back from his brow.

"How could anyone do this to him?" she said, looking up at Whit.

Anger blazed across his eyes. "What we saw was pure evil, Connie. I have no doubt about that." He touched his son's right hand, the only part of him that looked relatively undamaged. His other hand was bound in bandages; when they'd found him, it had been wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth.

"The man that shot him. Have they found him yet?"

He shook his head. "The police have been searching, but they haven't found him, even though the fugitive is wounded. The FBI will be here soon, though. They're going to question the girl who was there, Nadira."

"What do you think she has to do with it?"

"I wish I knew."

"Maybe she'll tell who Will really is."

"I doubt it. But he is the one behind all of this. Who knows what he'll do now. He's still out there, somewhere."

"What if he comes after us again? What if he tries to hurt Jason?"

"I won't let that happen," said Whit, looking down at his son. "As much as in my power, I'm never going to let anyone take him away from me again."

A nurse walked in, a clipboard at her side. "He is going to need another blood transfusion."

Whit started rolling up his sleeve, as if preparing it for the needle.

"But they don't recommend someone your age giving any more so soon."

"I'll take the risk."

"What's your blood type, Whit?" said Connie, her heart pounding.

"AB negative. The same as Jason's."

"Mine's O negative. That would work, wouldn't it?" She turned to the nurse, who nodded.

"Connie, you don't have to—" Whit said.

She looked at Whit. "This is the least I can do. If there's any way I can help save Jason's life, I'll do it."

"Thank you, Connie." The gratefulness in his eyes pierced her heart. She turned away, so he couldn't see her tears, and followed the nurse to get prepped for the transfusion.

JJJJJJJ

Will sat at his desk, waiting for Gray to call. It had been too long; something must've gone wrong. Neither Nadira nor Akim had contacted him either, and he couldn't get ahold of them. He hated feeling like events were spinning out of his control.

He twirled his pencil, resisting the urge to slam it lead-first into his antique desk. He had set up his plan up so well. While researching leverage to make John Whittaker give him the almost too-good-to-be-true computer program, a bonus had fallen into his lap—he'd discovered a woman who wanted revenge against the man who happened to be Whittaker's son. And this man also held a valuable secret in his mind. It had been such an elegant solution. He had the people who were all too willing to get their hands dirty for him. He had the leverage. He would soon have both secrets, and then—he could take the next step.

But suddenly, in his public life, things had become precarious. If he didn't get these secrets now, he wouldn't have the resources later. Time was running out.

It must be taking longer than expected to extract the intel from the younger Whittaker, he thought. Doesn't surprise me. Both father and son's profiles are pretty substantial.

His phone rang. He'd only used this phone for one purpose, to contact Nadira or Gray during the mission, and he would incinerate it soon as it was over.

"Yes?"

"This is Gray." The agent sounded out of breath—uncharacteristic for him.

"What is it?"

"The girl turned against me. I took her guard out of the picture, and I was about to take her out too, but –the target stepped in the way."

"What?"

"His mind must've been compromised by the drugs still in his system. He stepped in front of her, took the bullet for her, and that gave the cavalry enough time to arrive."

"You mean—"

"We've lost the target. He could not have survived the wounds he sustained."

"That is…unfortunate."

"As this mission has been terminated, do you have any further orders?"

"You'll have to stand by."

"Copy. And sir, in the future, you know who to contact if you want the job done."

"You didn't accomplish much this time."

"I obtained the identity of the weapon. It was only the civilians who—"

"If you allow two civilians to beat you, perhaps you're not as good as the image you sell."

He shut off the phone before Gray could say another word. He'd probably regret it later on; contrary to what he'd said, Gray was the best freelance operative he'd ever employed. It was best not to alienate him, especially since Gray was a dangerous man to have as an enemy.

There has to be a way to get what I want, he thought. I'm going to prevail in this and every venture I set out to do. I have to. I deserve the world. And the world needs my guidance.

There was a knock at his door.

"Come in," he said, after shoving the phone in the wastebasket. He'd burn it as soon as possible.

It was his aide, Parker. "I have some…news for you, Senator."

"You don't look like it's good news."

"No, sir. Here." He handed him some papers with bell curves scrawled across them, percentages—He knew what they added up to.

"I'm not going to be reelected, am I."

"The polls are down by another two percentage points. I'm sorry, but only by a miracle would you win this race."

He sighed. He'd seen this coming, but he'd let himself become distracted by the other section of the game. "Thank you, Parker. Thanks for all your hard work in this campaign. I suppose I'll have to make a concession speech now."

"I'll help you with that."

Will fought the need to snap back at him. "No, I want to do this thing on my own." And he dismissed Parker, and sat down at his desk, trying to figure out what had happened. How everything had fallen apart so quickly.

And how he could recover…

Someday, he thought. All great men have had setbacks. With this comforting thought, he stepped to the window and looked out at the Capitol, its dome gleaming golden in the early morning sunlight.


	13. Tears

Jason sat huddled in blankets in the huge easy chair at his dad's house, the grandfather clock ticking into the silence. For the first time since returning to consciousness, he felt at ease. After two weeks in the hospital, they'd brought him home yesterday. It had been hard, settling in through all the pain, and it still hurt to move; he tried not to, if at all possible.

There had also been so much commotion yesterday, with all the people coming over to visit. He was glad beyond words to see all those familiar faces, but it had exhausted him.

Part of him longed to be up and moving again, hated to be trapped in this pain-wracked body. Sometimes, though, it was good to just sit, in the still of the silence, and relax. Breathe.

Especially now, when the painkillers were working, and he had a book to read. It was even quieter in the house than normal, since his father was out running errands. Though Jason would have liked his dad to be around all the time, he was glad he was getting out; Whit had been almost constantly at his side all through his stay at the hospital. Connie had been there a lot too, and she had, he'd learned, even given him some of her own blood for a second transfusion.

Once he was able, he'd had many other visitors from around town. He was glad to see them, but part of him was afraid that they'd ask him questions. He wasn't even sure how much they knew; he hadn't told anyone anything, beyond giving the police his statement. Of course they knew of his injuries, "longer than my wife's shopping list", as Bernard Walton had said. It was a miracle he'd escaped with his life. Besides the gunshot wound, he had a broken nose, a deep cut in his shoulder, the same shoulder dislocated, a collapsed lung, two broken ribs, burns, bruises, lacerations, cuts, infection, dehydration, a missing fingernail, and two puncture wounds that went straight through his left hand.

It's amazing I was able to get out of the hospital so soon, he thought. He didn't anticipate the long recovery…and he knew there were other wounds he was avoiding that went even deeper.

He didn't want to think about what had happened, so at the hospital, when he didn't have visitors, he'd watched TV shows all day, even soap operas, in order to shut off the voices clamoring in his head.

There was no TV at his dad's house; he could have watched a video on his computer, but he thought that it would be better to read, in order to focus his mind.

He settled in to read his dad's copy of _Till We Have Faces_ by CS Lewis. For some reason, though he'd read most of Lewis's books, he hadn't read this one yet. By the time his father walked through the door, he had reached the middle of chapter five.

"Dad!" said Jason, relieved to see him. For some reason—he hadn't even realized this—but he was afraid to be alone. To be trapped. Someone could easily creep in and take him down without a fight-

"Are you all right, son?" Whit walked inside, set a package down on the counter.

"I'm fine. Just reading the book you gave me."

"How is it?"

"Good, so far."

Whit nodded. He sat down in the chair beside Jason, holding an envelope in his hands.

"I stopped by the police station to tie up some loose ends. They had something for you there."

He handed Jason the envelope. Jason set the book facedown in his lap, and took it with his good hand.

_Jason Whittaker_ was written across it in careful cursive.

"Before the NSA took Nadira into custody," said Whit, "she wrote that and left it at the police station for you."

Jason ripped open the envelope with his thumb.

Covering a single sheet of note paper ran the same careful script as on the outside. Now that he'd opened it, he wasn't sure he wanted to read it. It was too soon to face the memories that he knew would rush in on him, overwhelm him.

Despite his misgivings, he read:

_Dear Jason, _

_I can't begin to say how sorry I am for what I have done to you. If I hadn't been bent on revenge, none of this would have happened. I didn't even see how the mysterious man I partnered with was manipulating me, and I didn't think to ask what his motives were—I only wanted to hurt you for what you'd done to Noor._

_I was wrong. After I saw you and got to know you, I knew you were no ruthless killer. You made mistakes, like everyone does, but you are good at heart. That makes it all the harder to face what I did to you. _

_All I know is that you have given me a second chance at life. I will try with all my heart to make the most of it. _

_Right now, I'm not sure about what my future will be; the NSA is going to take me for questioning about the man who calls himself Will. I know next to nothing about him. Maybe they will torture me; that would be a fitting punishment. _

_If they let me go, I will ask them to let me take Akim's body back with me. He deserves more than an unmarked grave. All he did, he did out of loyalty for me. I hope you can forgive him for that._

_Jason, most of all, I keep thinking about the conversation we had. You said you would sacrifice yourself for me, and I didn't believe you. But when it came down to it, you stepped in front of Gray, and got shot in my place. I know what I would have done; I would never have traded my life for yours. I'm not even sure if I'd have traded my life for my own father's, as Noor did, Allah forgive me. _

_It makes me think of what was going through Noor's mind when it happened. She let go of her own life—she counted it as nothing—for someone she loved. _

_I may have to take a look at the Christian Bible, and see what else it says. If it gives you the strength to love your enemies, well-I used to think all Christians were hypocrites, but after my sister, and now you—_

_Her Bible is still at home, hidden somewhere in the house. If I ever get home, I will read it. And remember your sacrifice._

_I don't think we will ever speak again. I just wanted to let you know I could never thank you enough for what you've done. And I wish for you a wonderful life to the end of your days. _

_Love, _

_Nadira Jaheem_

Jason sat back and set the letter down on the book. Tears slipped from his eyes.

"Are you okay?" said his father.

"No," he said, more tears spilling onto his shirt, not caring because his dad was the one person in the world who would not hold his weakness against him.

His father pulled his chair close to his, laid his hand gently on his shoulder—as close as a hug as he could get without hurting him.

"I—don't know what to do, Dad," he said. His breath hitched; a sharp pain jabbed his chest. I'll tear myself apart if I cry much, he thought, trying to shut his mind off from what had happened. He'd thought his death would be the end of it. But he was still on Earth, wrestling with continuous stabs of pain and ever-present aches, struggling to keep the memories from overwhelming his mind with darkness.

Nadira—he harbored no hard feelings toward her. But Gray—horror stabbed him whenever he so much as thought of his name.

"I wish I could just hold you in my arms," said his father, "like when you were a kid, and tell you everything would be all right. But I'm having a hard time with this, Jason. Whenever I see your injuries, I think ….of them hurting you. I hate that the son that I love had to go through this at all. And how it's my fault that it happened in the first place."

"How could it be your fault?"

"If I hadn't made the computer program that Will wanted, he would have never come after you."

"You can't blame yourself, Dad. You couldn't have known."

"I should have known better than to create a program that was basically a virus. It went beyond all ethical and moral limits."

"At least…it didn't kill anyone."

"But it could have. _You_."

"I'd have deserved it. I didn't tell you this before, and then I wasn't up to it, but now-

"I …implied what had happened; after all, you warned me of getting lost in the labyrinth. But I didn't want anyone to know how far I went. The worst part was, it wasn't just out of necessity. I began to enjoy it." Disgust gripped him as it began to come back to him—creating the web of deception, immersing himself in it. And he told his father about everything, all its sordid details—from its inception in Australia, to the finale in Singapore, when he knew, under different circumstances, he would have taken revenge on Grote, and reveled in its taste as much as the agent he'd been working with.

It was in that moment, he'd realized he'd gone too far. He knew he had to step back, recover, remember the visage of truth—and that meant returning to Odyssey.

But he could not just step out of it and recover. No, he had to pay for a compromise that had worked in practice, until its consequences had caught up with him and nearly destroyed him.

"Even though I don't ever know how I can forgive Gray," said Jason, "part of me thinks that I deserved what happened to me. Part of me thinks that…I should have died, after what happened to Noor. A life for a life." Pain twisted in his heart that had nothing to do with the shrapnel embedded in the tissue near it, which he'd probably bear for the rest of his life.

"Don't talk like that."

"I'm sorry. It's selfish of me to think that way. You've already lost one son…but I'm a poor substitute." He made an attempt at a smile.

"No, you aren't, Jason. If Jerry could see you today, I know he'd be proud of you. Like I am."

Jason shook his head. "I don't see how. I could never live up to him."

They sat there in silence for a few minutes. Then Jason picked up the letter. He handed it to his father, who read it.

Tears fell from his father's eyes. "I didn't know that's how you were shot."

"Well, I wasn't about to advertise it or anything."

"You saved her life."

"I couldn't have done it without God's help. I couldn't have even…I gave into him, to Gray." He nearly choked, thinking of it. "I would have given him more… God is the only way I didn't."

"And he spared your life for a reason. Nadira's too. Even Gray's."

"I don't know if I can…I can't even think of him without…panicking."

Whit nodded, brow furrowed. "It's not going to be easy for you to get through this."

"I still think it would have been easier just to…well, much nicer to be in Heaven now."

"I've been thinking that of myself lately. But if there's still some good I can do, someone I can help, someone I can lead to Him, then I will make that sacrifice. It's not all the darkness of evil, either—God made the world good, and that still shines through. It's just hard to see sometimes."

"Right now, I'm not sure if I can see much good at all."

Whit pursed his lips, then rose from his chair. He picked up the package from the counter that he'd brought in, and sat back down.

"I'll open it for you," he said. Jason nodded gratefully. "I was going to give this to you later, when you moved back to your apartment, but here. I found it in the attic last week."

Jason took it in his right hand. It was a picture. A faded print from the 70's, everyone in his family wearing bellbottoms, the splendor of the Grand Canyon in the background, Jana, arms crossed, glaring down at Jason, who scowled back at her. Jerry holding Jason's shoulders, grinning like a superstar. Jenny beside him, smiling rather coquettishly into the camera, her eyes so like Jerry's. Whit, looking at Jenny, as if about to laugh.

"Remember that day?" said his dad.

Jason nodded. "We'd just hiked all the way back up the Grand Canyon in the 100 degree heat. We were miserable." He smiled; laughing would have hurt.

"Even though it was miserable, I hold onto that memory. That trip was the last time we were all together as a family."

"The last time, before…the war changed everything."

"What happened…wasn't easy for any of us. But just like back then, we have to remember that someday, all this will be swept away, and we'll be reunited with the ones we love, and there will be no more sorrow, or pain, or tears."

Whit touched his shoulder; their understanding of a hug which they'd developed in the days following the surgery.

Jason knew he would have a long road to recovery. But his dad was right; there was light in the world, as well as darkness. He just had to cling to the truth that something beautiful that he couldn't yet comprehend could be born out of the darkness and ugliness that he'd been immersed in for what seemed like so long.

He set the picture on the lampstand beside him, and sat back to read his book, while his dad went into the kitchen to fix them both some supper.

The End

_Thanks to all my reviewers! At some point I may write a continuation which deals with Jason having to face what happened—and the mysterious Senator (or…former senator) may reappear…._

_I am not totally sure if I'm satisfied with this chapter. I may go back and fix the whole story at some point. I have just edited some errors that stood out, but to be coherent it probably needs a lot more revision. Someday. Right now I just need to recover from the story (along with Jason…)_


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